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empreinte. 

Un  dee  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
darniire  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  salon  la 
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symbole  ▼  signifie  "FIN". 


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beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Las  cartes,  plenches.  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  etre 
filmAs  i  des  taux  de  reduction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  etre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA.  il  est  film*  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas.  en  prenant  le  nombra 
d'images  ntcessaira.  Las  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mithoda. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MICROCOPY   RESOLUTION   TEST  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1.0 


I.I 


■^  IIIIIH 

IIIIM 

IJ6       1^ 

111 

IIIIM 

It  ho 

Hill  2.0 

1.8 


1.25 


1.6 


^    >1PPLIED  IfVMGE    Ir 


1653   East   Main    Street 

Rochester.  New  York        U609       USA 

(716)   482  -  0300-  Plione 

(716)   288-  5989  -  Fax 


1 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


By 


MADGE  MACBETH 


BROADWAY    PUBLISHING   CO. 

NEW  YORK  BALTIMORE  ATLANTA 

1910 


.t'HiKaC&^i{ifi%i^ 


G)PYKICHT,   I9IO, 
BY 

MADGE  MACBETH. 


880606 


To 
MY  MOTHER 


The  Winning  Game 


CHAPTER  I. 

Algy  Trcssidar  boasted  that  there  had  only  been 
one  g  --at  desire  in  his  hfe,  ungratified. 

His  explanation  of  this  enviable  state  was  not 
very  satisfactory,  though  it  was,  to  himself,  all 
sufficient.    He  was  not  keenly  introspective. 

It  may  have  been  that  he  never  really  wanted 
many  things;  it  may  have  been  that  he  possessed 
the  dogged  persistence  and  force  of  will  which 
wrest  from  life  those  things  which  seem  worth 
while;  it  may  have  been  a  bit  of  both.  At  any 
rate,  whatever  Tressidar  set  his  mind  upon  he  got 
—be  it  a  horse,  a  woman,  or  whisky. 

Gambling  was  by  way  of  mild  excitement — mild, 
because  he  never  seemed  to  put  his  whole  soul  into 
anything;  he  was  what  might  be  termed  casual. 
Yet  Tressidar  did  experience  a  sort  of  thrill,  a 
pleasure  in  his  companions'  acknowledgment  of  his 
ability  to  triumph,  he  rather  enjoyed  hearing  them 
say: 


4  THE  WINNING  GAME 

"I  had  a  streak  of  Tressidar's  luck  last  night," 
which  meant  good  luck.  ^ 

He  was  generally  careless  with  his  victory,  often 
wondering  why  he  tried  to  win;  in  fact,  Tressidar 
was  only  happy  in  the  struggle.  .,..!,- 

When  he  lost,  however,  he  did  not  mind  m  the 
least,  never  having  known  the  grinding,  gn^^^g 
worry  of  having  no  funds  at  his  command.  There 
always  seemed  to  be  an  uncle,  an  aunt,  or  even  a 
fortunate  gamble  just  at  the  crucial  monient.     in 
sports  he  excelled,  being  unlike  many  of  his  coun- 
trymen-mentally  alert,  and  quick  to  see  where  ad- 
vantage might  be  taken  of  his  opponent's  weakness. 
Always  defensive,  conservative,  he  spent  his  antag- 
onist  without  playing  the  game  to  any  extent  him- 
self    As  in  gambling,  he  did  not  mind  losing,  for  • 
in  that  event  the  honey   of   triumph    w^s   gently 
plucked  from  the  winner,  and  the  balm  of  sympathy 
given  to  Algy ;  the  victor  was  always  made  to  feel 
as  though  he  should  have  lost. 

Yet  what  he  did  he  did  well,  saying  that  he  never 
worried  about  a  piece  of  work  after  giving  it  his  at- 
tention—it was  done  as  well  as  it  could  be  done. 

Like  the  sacred  oracle  at  Delphi,  circumstances 
usually  worked  to  his  advantage,  no  matter  which 

way  they  fell.  .  _ 

With  women  he  was  certainly  an  epicure.  Just 
*Svomen"  did  not  satisfy  him;  there  must  be  a  very 
particular  woman,  one  sought  and  coveted  by  other 
men,  who,  perchance,  had  infinitely  more  claim  to 
her  favors  than  Tressidar. 


THE  WINNING  GAME  5 

No  one  knew  whether  he  realized  this  or  not,  he 
always  laughed  with  tolerant  amusement  when  his 
companions  ironically  sang : 

•They  say  that  the  best  is  none  too  good  for  Algy.'* 

He  had  a  dangerous  intuitive  power,  being  able 
to  discover  where  the  woman  found  her  suitors 
lacking;  he  saw  the  diflFerence  between  them  and 
the  men  they  were  asked  to  be— he,  himself,  sup- 
plied that  difference,  and  won. 

The  deadliest  weapon  of  which  he  was  possessed 
was  a  politely  aloof  and  indifferent  manner.  If  he 
cultivated  this,  no  one  was  the  wiser.  But  he  was 
never  seen  in  any  excess  of  enthusiasm,  over  any- 
thing whatever,  and  when  that  attitude  is  not  a 
pose  it  tells. 

A  man  of  that  stamp,  to  whom  things  material 
come  too  easily,  is  dangerous  in  any  community,  es- 
pecially in  the  Indian  Hills,  where  husbands  and 
brothers  are  sent  off  to  duty  and  death,  leaving 
wives  and  sisters,  homesickness  and  heartache,  be- 
hind. 

Whisky?    Yes,  Tressidar  really  wanted  whisky, 

but  he  always  got  it.     He  did  not  take  a  drink 

he  rfra«^— drank,  as  men  do  in  India,  first,  and  all 
their  lives  after.  And  when  he  was  "drinking"  he 
had  thought  for  neither  God  nor  man,  merely  for 
more,  more,  more! 

But  when  he  was  not  drinking  his  mind  had  to 
be  stimulated,  and  he  turned  to  women ;  he  grew  to 
love  being  loved,  to  look  for  it,  to  expect  it,  be- 


6  THE  WINNING  GAME 

cause  he  was  affectionate,  in  his  lazy  way.  Many 
a  woman  who  did  not  understand  the  potent  call  ot 
drink,  wondered  why  he  left  her  without  a  word 
of  farewell,  an  excuse,  or  even  a  regret,  having  felt 
only  a  week  before  that  she  was  justified,  in  believ- 
ing him  sincere  in  his  loving. 

It  always  happened  that  the  woman  appeared  to 
interest  herself  in  Algy  first,  for  he  played  the  game 
of  love  as  he  did  tennis— defensively.     He  made 
himself  necessary  by  the  process  of  ehmination,  so 
to  speak;  he  always  had  the  appearance  of  being 
sought.     The  woman  in  the  case  seldom  realized 
how  hopelessly  entangled  she  was  in  the  toils  of  her 
own  weaving,  until  Algy  left  her,  a  prey  to  burning 
thirst,  and  commenced  to  drink,  forgetting  her  as 
completely  as  though  she  had  never  been,  and  turn- 
ing up  six  months  later  a  thousand  miles  away  \vitli 
the  most  essential  of  his  belongings  tagged,  and  a 
mild  curiosity  as  to  how  it  all  happened. 

Perforce  he  was  something  of  a  traveller,  and 
learned  to  know  women  fatally  well. 

On  arriving  at  a  place,  the  humor  of  the  situation 
would  sometimes  strike  him.  He  would  try  to  de- 
cide whether  to  search  for  companions  with  whom 
to  while  away  the  nocturnal  hours,  in  a  truly  Bac- 
chanalian manner,  or  whether  to  put  himself  in  the 
public— that  is  to  say,  the  feminine  eye— and  engage 
once  again  in  gallant  pleasantries.  Not  that  Tres- 
sidar  consciously  thought  out  his  course  of  action 
so  minutely ;  as  has  been  said,  he  was  not  analytical, 
1  ut  he  would  often  toss  up  a  coin  carelessly— heads. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


a  woman;  tails,  Scotch.  Of  course,  Scotch  always 
won  in  the  long  run. 

But  the  one  desire — that  was  twenty  years  ago, 
when  Algy  had  come  to  New  York  with  his  brother 
and  that  brother's  tutor.  He  was  but  ten,  a  willful, 
spoiled  child,  whose  wish  was  law  at  home — ^Lady 
Tressidar  did  not  believe  in  crossing  children,  she 
said  it  spoiled  their  dispositions,  and  Sir  Anthony—- 
Ah!  well,  he  had  troubles  of  his  own,  there  was 
Lady  T. 

At  the  hotel  in  New  York  there  was  a  flaxen- 
haired  elf  of  a  child,  younger  by  several  years  than 
Algy,  and  while  he  rather  scorned  the  idea  of  play- 
ing with  girls,  somehow  this  child  interested  him, 
and  he  had  to  acknowledge  shamefacedly  that  he 
liked  her. 

She  did  everything  as  well  or  better  than  he; 
could  throw  a  ball  as  straight  and  hard  as  any  boy, 
could  climb  and  run  faster  than  the  lazy  English  fel- 
low. But  she  would  not  suffer  him  to  be  a  bully, 
she  would  not  be  a  nice,  terrified,  obedient  white 
man,  while  Algy  brandished  his  tomahawk  and 
roughly  dragged  at  her  mop  of  flaxen  hair.  In  fact, 
one  day,  in  a  fine  show  of  temper,  she  soundly 
slapped  him  and  fearlessly  walked  away  from  him 
to  the  door  of  her  room,  while  he,  astonished  to  the 
point  of  stupidity,  stood  motionless,  listening  to 
the  key  grating  in  the  lock. 

Whatever  the  offense  was,  it  apparently  rankled 
deep  in  the  little  girl's  heart,  for  she  refused  to  meet 


8 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


Algy  again,  and  so  two  days  went  by,  bringing  the 
hour  of  his  departure  sickeningly  near. 

At  first  he  had  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  he 
did  not  care  whether  she  came  out  and  played  or 
not,  but  the  other  children  seemed  stupid  and  tire- 
some in  comparison,  and  finally  he  confessed  that 
he  wanted  her.  Then  he  satisfied  himself  with  the 
assurance  that  she,  too,  would  be  lonely  for  him, 
and  would  come.  When  she  did  not,  however,  he 
began  to  want  her,  want  her  far  more  than  he  had 
longed  for  his  pony,  his  gun,  his  watch,  or  even 
his  precious  jackknife.  He  rapped  on  her  door,  then 
he  pounded,  then  kicked. 

"I  want  the  girl  to  come  out !"  he  shouted  to  the 
maid  who  opened  it ;  "I  want  to  say  good-bye,"  he 
added,  a  little  more  politely. 

The  maid  spoke  quietly  over  her  shoulder,  gently, 
coaxingly,  then  finally  turned  back  to  the  boy  and 
shook  her  head. 

"She  says  she  doesn't  like  you  any  more,  and 
she  won't  come  out." 

Quite  suddenly  the  knowledge  burst  upon  him, 
bitterly ;  it  was  true,  she  did  not  like  him,  she  would 
not  come  out  even  to  say  good-bye ! 

A  blinding  rage  gripped  him.  mingled  with  a 
perfect  passion  of  longing,  and,  jumping  wildly  up 
and  down,  he  yelled  furiously : 

"If  she  won't  come  drag  her— drag  her  to  me! 
I  mil  have  her !    Drag  her,  I  say !" 

But  it  was  he  who  got  cruelly  dragged  away. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


CHAPTER  II. 


"I  have  something  for  you,  Leslie,"  said  Don 
Crowley,  as  his  sister  Margaret,  and  Miss  Loring 
came  into  the  drawing-room. 

"Oh,  Don,  you  old  dear,"  cried  the  girl,  "did 
you  really  get  me  one?  With  a  lovely  flat,  black 
nose  and  spikey  teeth  that  stick  up — this  way — on 
the  outside?" 

Crowley  laughed,  and  the  continuation  of  his  un- 
controlled mirth  gave  Leslie's  enthusiasm  time  to 
cool.  Her  eager  look  was  superseded  by  one  of 
perplexity. 

"What  is  it,  then?"  she  asked,  with  a  pretty  pout. 
"I  thought  you  had  discovered  my  dream  dog." 

Crowley  turned  to  his  sister.  "I  gather  that  you 
have  not  'paved  the  way'  in  your  usual,  tactful  style, 
Margaret.    Leslie  was  here  to  lunch,  wasn't  she?" 

Margaret  nodded. 

"And  it  is  now  seven  o'clock,"  continued  her 
brother,  looking  at  his  watch.  "If  you  haven't  men- 
tioned the  latest  item  of  interest,  pray  what  have 
you  talked  about  these  long,  rainy  hours?" 

"What  is  it,  Don?  Don't  tease!"  LesHe  cried  im- 
patiently. 

Margaret  Crov.\^y  answered  the  question  in  her 
business-like,  matter-of-fact  way. 


-stuaeam 


lO 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


"We  have  been  talking  Social  Economy,  I  be- 
lieve, for  the  most  part,  though  some  of  the  time 
Leslie  was  telling  me  about  her  new  clothes,  too," 
she  added,  a  prey  to  accuracy  of  detail,  which  is  en- 
tirely superfluous  in  a  woman. 

"Don"— Leslie  stamped  her  foot— "whatr 
"He  is  an  Englishman,"  laughed  Crowley,  "who 
has  not  a  flat,  black  nose,  nor  spikey  teeth  which 
stick  up  on  the  outside— so."  He  made  two  tusks 
of  his  forefingers  and  placed  them,  tip  upward,  be- 
side his  nose.  , 

Margaret  exclaimed,  and  her  friend  said    Pout, 
in  disgust.    "Is  that  aWV 

"He  is  coming  to  dine  to-night — should  be  here 
now,  with  George  Burnley  and  Vera  Stearns. 
Didn't  you  tell  Les,  when  I  'phoned?"  he  asked, 
turning  to  his  sister. 

"No,  I  forgot  by  the  time  I  got  upstairs,"  Mar- 
garet admitted.  "It  didn't  matter  really,  you  know, 
and  we  were  so  interested  in  our  conversation.  She 
knew  she  was  to  stay  to  dinner  and  had  a  gown 
here,  it  made  no  difference  who  was  coming!" 

"No  apologies  necessary,"  Don  assured  his  sister, 
with  exaggerated  kindness,  "I  was  only  asking  to 
satisfy  a  very  mild  form  of  curiosity.  By  the  way, 
have  yoH  none?"  he  asked  of  Leslie,  who  was  stand- 
ing on  tiptoe,  trying  to  catch  a  refractory  lock  and 
pin  it  under  her  braid. 

The  girl  shook  her  head  emphatically.  Not  a 
bit!  It  sounds  uninteresting  so  far— forgive  me  if  I 
seem  to  tread,  but  you  remember  the  last  one— er— 


THE  WINNING  GAME  n 

what  was  his  name—Haslett  or  Has-been  or  Should- 
have-been-let,  or  something?    A  younger  son.  and 
all  that.    Never  again!" 
Don  assumed  an  injured  expression : 

T  "?  '^ll!''*^  y°"  *°  ^®  governed  by  a  prejudice, 
Leslie.  This  one  is  not  Haslett's  style  in  the  least. 
I  believe  he  m  a  younger  son,  but  don't  blame  him 
for  that;  no  doubt  he  would  have  been  the  eldest 
had  he  been  asked  anything  about  it.  If  I  remem- 
ber aright,  your  particular  grievance  in  Puh-c^/s 
case  was  that  when  he  proposed  to  you  he  said 
he  knew  he  was  not  good  enough  for  you,  and  all 
that  sort  of  rot.  I  doubt  that  Tressidar  will  make 
such  a  faux  pas." 

Miss  Loring  laughed,  and  her  eyes  twinkled. 

"What  a  deep  and  subtle  compliment !  That  was 
most  elegantly  done."  She  puckered  her  brows  for 
an  instant,  "Tressidar,  did  you  say?" 

"Yes—Algernon  Tressidar." 

"And  an  Englishman?  Tressidar!"  She  re- 
peated the  name,  thoughtfully— "Algy  Tressidar." 

Humph,"  commented  Don,  "how  chummy! 
Algy,  indeed!"  He  turned  to  an  imaginary  person 
at  his  side  and  simpered,  "Well,  do  you  know,  I  feel 
as  though  I  had  known  you  all  my  life— we  are  so 
thoroughly  congenial!" 

Before  Leslie  could  answer  Mrs.   Stearns  and 

Burnley  entered,  and  Margaret,  with  a  housekeeper's 

pride  m  her  table,  looked  at  the  clock,  a  shade  of 

annoyance  crossing  her  face  as  the  half  hour  chimed. 

Mrs.  Crowley  never  left  her  room.    Many  of  her 


12  THE  WINNING  GAME 

friends  scoffed  at  her  inability  to  do  so,  and  hinted 
that  she  stayed  there  just  to  prove  them  in  the 
wrong.  Nevertheless,  the  burden  of  housekeep- 
ing had  been  Margaret's  ever  since  her  eighteenth 
birthday,  and  that  experience  combined  with  natural 
common  sense,  made  her  home  a  pleasure  to  her 
brother  and  his  friends. 

"George  tells  me  that  Mr.  Matheson  is  not  so 
well  to-night,"  Vera  was  saying,  with  anxiety.  I 
wish  he  would  let  some  of  us  do  something.  Have 
you  seen  him,  Don?"  she  asked,  turning  to  their 

host.  . 

"Yes,  this  afternoon.  Poor  old  boy,  ne  was 
rather  bad,  fighting  for  his  breath  and  only  able 
to  whisper.  When  I  leaned  over  the  bed,  ,he  said, 
•The  doctor  calls  it  pneumonia,  but  I  call  it  Hell! 
Doesn't  that  sound  like  him?" 

Leslie's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  clasped  her 
hands,  tightly,  together. 

"He  simply  must  get  better,"  she  said,    he  must! 
What  would  we  do  without  him?" 

Burnley  spoke. 

"The  club  would  never  be  the  same  to  me,  1 
know,  if  Matheson  were  not  there.  Though  so 
much  older  than  the  rest  of  us,  he  is  beyond^  all 
odds  the  greatest  favorite,  and,  as  he  says,  the 
youngest  boy  there.'  He  now  feels  particularly 
blue  because,  on  account  of  his  illness,  he  is  unable 
to  do  the  proper  thing  by  Tressidar.' 

At  the  mention  of  that  name,  Margaret  Crow- 
ley looked  at  the  mantel  and  frowned  again.    The 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


U 


hands  pointed  to  the  quarter.  To  her  conventional 
mind,  this  was  a  crime — being  late  for  dinner 
and  at  a  stranger's  home. 

"What  has  he  to  do  with  Mr.  Tressidar?"  asked 
Leshe,  showing  her  interest  for  the  first  time. 

"He  had  letters  to  Matheson,"  explained  Burn- 
ley, "or  a  letter  from  his  eldest  brother,  who  was 
a  friend  and  schoolmate  of  his,  I  believe." 

"Yes,"  Crowley  interrupted,  "the  old  chap's  hos- 
pitable spirit  writhes,  because  he  has  to  depend  on 
us  to  do  the  honors.  He  has  only  seen  Tressidar 
once." 

"Bless  him,"  murmured  Leslie,  a  little  unstead- 
ily. 

"Margaret,"  ventured  Mrs.  Stearns,  "did  your 
raison  d'etre  know  at  what  hour  the  Crowley's 
dine?  I  doh^t  wish  to  seem  impatient,  or  unduly 
gluttonous,  but  the  hideous  truth  is— that  I  am 
both.  I  am  dieting  now,  you  know,  and  only  eat 
a  cheese  straw  or  two  in  the  middle  of  the  day." 

While  the  others  laughed,  Margaret  blushed  an 
uncomfortable  red.  She  knew  Vera's  speech  was  in- 
tended to  be  funny  and  recognized  its  tact  in  turn- 
ing the  conversation  from  a  subject  so  distressing 
to  Leslie,  but  at  the  same  time  she  was  sensitive  to 
a  fancied  rebuke  in  opening  her  doors  to  one  so 
grossly  ignorant  of  his  privilege,  and  she  turned 
a  little  sharply  to  her  brother. 

"Did  you  tell  Mr.  Tressidar  that  we  dine  at 
half-past  seven,  Don?" 

But  Crowley  had  already  moved  toward  the  door 


14 


th£  winning  game 


I 


and  was  accepting  the  somewhat  careless  apologies 
of  his  latest  guest. 

Though  "careless"  is  hardly  expressive.  In 
thinking  about  it  later,  Leslie  was  rather  at  a  loss 
to  find  a  correct  and  applicable  adjective,  descrip- 
tive of  Tressidar's  manner.  He  came  slowly  into 
the  room  with  a  grace  and  ease  which  appealed  to 
her,  at  once,  yet  she  resented  an  absence  of  contri- 
tion, penitence,  at  his  tardy  appearance. 

The  words,  and  even  the  tone  of  his  voice,  were 
scrupulously  correct,  but  there  was  that  lacking,  in 
both,  for  which  Margaret  Crowley  and  her  friend 
looked. 

"I  am  awfully  sorry  to  be  so  late,"  Tressidar 
said,  in  a  pleasant,  low  English  voice.  "I  was  de- 
tained." 

That  was  all. 

In  itself  it  was  sufficient — verbosity,  gushing, 
tells  against  a  person,  but  Leslie  felt  somehow  that 
Tressidar  himself  attached  no  importance  to  the 
occurrence,  and  she  resented  it. 

"My  sister,  Margaret,"  Don  said,  "and  Mrs. 
Stearns,  may  I  introduce  our  guest?  Miss  Loring 
— and  Burnley  you  already  know," 

After  shaking  hands  with  Burnley,  the  English- 
man turned  back  for  a  moment  toward  Leslie,  who 
had  moved  to  her  favorite  place  beside  the  mantel. 
He  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  seemed  about  to  ad- 
dress her,  reconsidered  it,  and  walked  to  the  divan, 
beside  Vera  Stearns. 

Leslie,  always  keenly  alive  to  "situations,"  al- 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


15 


most  laughed  outright,  as  a  little  Pussy-in-the-cor- 
ner  game  took  place.  Burnley  left  his  seat,  and 
moved  to  Margaret,  while  Don  asked  her  to  look  at 
a  new  piece  of  tapestry  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 
As  they  passed  the  divan.  Vera  was  saying: 
"Speak  quickly,  while  I  strangle  a  platitude— I 
was  just  about  to  ask  'How  do  you  like  New 
York  ? 

Tressidar  laughed  and  kept  his  eyes  on  her  face 
as  though  oblivious  to  any  one  else  in  the  room. 

"Well?"  asked  Don,  when  out  of  earshot. 

Leslie's  eyes  twinkled  wickedly,  "I "  she  be- 
gan. 

«,"?'""^^'  ^'^*  Crowley,"  announced  the  faithful 
Watkins  solemnly. 


I6 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


CHAPTER  III. 

In  spite  of  expert  attendance,  material  comfort, 
and  the  earnest  prayers  of  more  friends  than  many 
of  us  are  vouchsafed  in  this  vale  of  competition 
and  tears,  Albert  Matheson,  bachelor,  passed  to  his 
eternal  rest,  the  day  following  the  Crowley's  din- 

At  noon,  the  nurse  bent  tenderly  over  him,  ask- 
ing if  there  was  not  some  one  he  would  like  to 
see,  and  in  answer  to  the  startled  inquiry  in  his 
eyes,  two  scalding  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks. 

Don  and  Leslie  reached  the  apartment  almost 
simultaneously.  They  were  both  calm  and  could 
be  depended  upon. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,"  gasped  Mr.  Matheson, 
trying  to  smile,  "and  am  not  going  to  give  away 
my  family  jewels  nor  the  pianola.  I  simply  wanted 
to  see  you  both — that's  all." 

The  two  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  vainly  try- 
ing to  suppress  the  look  of  suffering  they  knew  was 

in  their  eyes.  ^^ 

"I  am  so  glad  you  let  us  come,  dear,  whis- 
pered Leslie.     "If  you  only  knew  how  we  have 

missed  you."  „ 

"That's  good  news,  to  an  old  duffer  like  me, 
the  sick  man  wheezed.     "You  two  have  always 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


17 


been  my  little  %»'orld,  since  Kitty " 

He  ceased  speakinjj,  and  a  spasm  contracted  his 
features.  Don  put  his  arm  al)out  Leslie,  carrying 
her,  protesting,  from  the  room,  and  left  her  for  a 
moment  in  the  den. 

When  he  returned  she  was  staring  at  the  photo- 
graph of  her  mother  which  Matheson  always  kept 
above  the  mantel. 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  home  with  me,  dear," 
he  said  tenderly,  "Margaret  won't  disturb  you." 

She  did  not  answer  then,  but  outside  in  the 
hansom  ?he  asked  to  go  to  her  own  home,  for  a 
w'^'*  .  at  least,  and  Crowley  did  not  insist  upon 
havi  J  his  way. 

Leslie  Loring  was  an  orphan,  and  lived  alone. 
Hers  was  one  of  those  untortunate  and  peculiar 
cases,  where  both  of  her  parents  were  only  children, 
and  she  was  their  only  child.  Captain  Loring,  a 
gay  young  naval  officer,  after  a  year's  absence  from 
his  wife,  contracted  a  malignant  fever  on  his  home- 
ward cruise,  and  never  saw  his  baby. 

Kitty  Loring,  inconsolable  at  first,  gradually  de- 
cided to  gather  together  the  broken  threads  of  her 
young  life,  and  after  three  years  of  widowhood, 
married  an  officer  in  the  Indian  army,  much  to 
Albert  Matheson's  sorrow  and  misgiving.  She 
took  her  little  girl  out  to  the  colony  with  her, 
alike  ignorant  and  distrustful  of  the  stories  told 
concerning  climatic  conditions,  for  the  infatuated 
Colonel  Ashbury,  fearing  lest  the  child  should  stand 
in  his  way,  encouraged  her  to  take  Leslie. 


i8 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


After  two  years  of  incessant  struggling  to  keep 
the  baby  alive,  Kitty  Ashbury,  divided  between  her 
love  for  her  husband  and  daughter,  decided  to 
send  the  latter  home,  and  to  make  a  trip  at  least 
once  a  year  to  see  the  child.  She  herself  was  far 
from  strong,  and  at  times  a  sickening  dread  of  en- 
teric fever  took  firm  hold  of  her,  and  worked  sad 
havoc  with  her  nerves. 

The  gigantic  problem  confronting  her,  however, 
was  what  to  do  with  Leslie,  after  she  reached  New 
York.  Having  no  near  relations,  and  under  the 
circumstances  not  caring  to  ask  old  Madam  Loring 
to  take  the  little  girl,  this  question  caused  Kitty 
many  restless  nights.  She  finally  decided  to  send 
her  maid  and  companion — a  woman  whose  fidelity 
and  devotion  were  assured — with  her  little  charge 
to  Edgeville,  a  small  hamlet  well  off  the  beaten 
track,  where  all  the  inhabitants  were,  in  a  measure, 
as  one  large  family,  and  where  under  J\Irs.  Edge's 
care  Leslie  could  recover  her  lost  vitality  and 
strength. 

After  this  was  accomplished  there  would  be  time 
to  think  of  the  next  move. 

Mrs.  Edge  was  several  years  older  than  Kitty 
Ashbury,  but  before  her  marriage,  had  been  rather 
an  intimate  friend.  She  was  the  phlegmatic  sort 
of  woman  who  settles  herself  comfortably  down 
and  never  changes  anything,  taking  color  from 
the  tone  predominant.  Wliat  every  one  else  did, 
Sophie  Edge  did,  too;  the  way  others  lived,  she 
lived  also,  and  the  position  of  the  furniture  re- 


THE  WINNING  GAME  19 

mained  the  same,  from  the  day  she  moved  into  her 
house  until  the  end  of  the  chapter.  Never  very  in- 
ventive nor  initiative,  even  in  New  York  after  liv- 
ing SIX  months  in  Edgeville,  every  vestige  of  indi- 
viduality was  sapped,  and  she  drawled  as  lazily  and 
dropped  her  g's,  as  naturally  as  did  Mrs.  Joshua 
Clapham,  wife  of  the  Reverend  Rector. 

Ezra  Edge  was  land  poor— he  owned  most  of  the 
village  which  bore  his  name,  but  little  good  it  did 
him,  when  no  one  else  succumbed  to  an  inherent 
longing  to  possess  a  patch  of  Edgeville,  or  when 
those  who  did,  paid  their  obligation  on  the  good  old 
system  of  tithes,  with  precious  little  of  ready  cur- 
rency attached. 

As  Edgeville's  daughters  grew  and  the  age  of 
indiscretion  and  discontent  in  their  rural  surround- 
ings, they  flitted  to  city  relations  and  more  con- 
genial atmosphere  which  excursions  generally  cul- 
minated m  a  modest  gift  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Clapham 
and  unctuous  farewells.    They  sometimes  returned 
that  Edgeville  might  gaze  with  envy  and  wonder 
on  the  first  born,  but  while  the  community  at  large 
appreciated  this  honor  and  privilege,  and  Ezra  Edge 
shared  the  sensation  of  pride  in  a  more  or  less 
limited  degree,   it  did  nothing  toward   filling  the 
family  coflfers,  and  he  saw  his  dream  of  building 
up  a  thriving  metropolis,  fade  slowly  away. 

When  Leslie  Loring,  accompanied  by  the  faith- 
fu  Ceciley,  arrived  for  an  indefinite  stay  in  the 
Edge  household,  her  advent  did  not  make  the  stir 
It  might  have  done,  had  she  not  timed  her  visit 


20  THE  WINNING  GAME 

simultaneously  with  that  of  the  stork,  who  laid  in 
Sophia  Edge's  waiting  arms,  a  chubby  young  son. 
Kitty  Ashbury  knew  nothing  of  this  or  it  might 
have  made  some  difference  in  her  plans,  though  the 
length  of  time  required  for  a  letter  to  reach  Mizra- 
pore,  and  the  answer  to  find  its  way  to  Edgeville, 
was  so  great,  that  the  news  would  have  been  stale 
when  half  the  journey  was  completed. 

So  Leslie  and  Ceciley  settled  down,  as  much  as 
Leslie  could  settle,  and  several  monotonous  years 

rolled  on. 

She  saw  her  mother  but  once.  Kitty  made  the 
•  trip  almost— yes,  almost— reluctantly.  She  had 
grown  to  love  the  life  in  India,  and  she  cared  quite 
seriously  for  her  husband.  The  legular  reports 
from  Ceciley  were  more  than  satisfactory,  and  it 
seemed  as  though  Leslie  grew  less  and  less  a  part  of 
her.  It  was  more  than  apparent  that  the  child  had 
outgrown  the  need  of  her  mother. 

So  each  year  the  trip  was  postponed,  until  at 
last  the  deadly  enteric  fever  did  its  work,  and  Mrs. 
Ashbury,  the  most  popular  woman  at  the  post,  was 
taken  upon  that  Long  Journey,  from  which  she 
could  not  return. 

Her  death  meant  litde  to  Leslie— there  was  al- 
ways Ceciley.  Henrietta  Edge  was  flatteringly  pli- 
able and  plastic,  very  like  her  mother,  a  nice  child 
to  mould  into  one's  dea  of  the  ideal  playmate; 
then,  too,  there  was  Tom,  several  years  her  junior, 
but  still  a  happy  relaxation  after  some  hours  spent 
in  Henrietta's  company,  so  Leslie  Loring  found 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


21 


ample  work  of  its  kind  for  her  restless  mind,  and 
did  not  miss  something  she  had  never  known  in 
the  loss  of  her  mother. 

When  the  time  came  for  selecting  a  school  out- 
side the  limited  radius  of  Edgeville's  idea  of  edu- 
cation, the  girl  assumed  the  whole  responsibility  of 
the  choice  herself,  arguing  that  she  was  the  one  to 
be  pleased,  and  that  if  she  chose  it  and  was  disap- 
pointed, no  one  would  ever  know — if  they  chose  a 
school,  unwisely— "well  you  know  my  disposition," 
Leslie  said,  with  a  dark  and  sinister  shake  of  her 
yellow  head. 

She  read  over  the  circulars  and  discussed  the  ad- 
vantages and  disadvantages  of  each  with  her  elders 
showing  such  intelligence,  that  finally  Mr.  Edge 
said : 

"Well,  Sophie,  let  the  child  go  where  she  pleases. 
I  feel  that  she  is  much  like  my  old  horse,  Molly — 
give  her  the  reins  and  allow  her  to  go  ahead,  she 
will  keep  to  the  middle  of  the  road  and  safety. 
Try  to  guide  her  and  make  a  path  for  her— she 
will  pull  against  you  and  probably  land  you  in  a 
ditch.    Horses  and  some  women  have  sense." 

Sophie  Edge  placidly  acquiesced.  Her  friends 
said  she  had  a  beautiful  faith  in  Providence.  Those 
who  were  not  so  charitably  inclined,  said  she  w^as 
lazy.  However,  in  this  instance  the  result  would 
have  been  the  same. 

Leslie  chose  a  very  select  school,  where  there 
was  listed  among  many  extras  and  little  stars,  the 
amount  required  for  a  maid's  comfort  and  suste- 


22  THE  WINNING  GAME 

nance,  though  when  asked  why  she  showed  a  par- 
tiahty  for  that  seminary  above  all  others,  Leslie 
had  answered  thoughtfully,  as  if  unprejudiced  by 
the  obvious  elegance  and  high  standing : 

"Well,  you  see,  Zee-Zee,"  (her  name  for  Mr. 
Edge)  "at  Madame's  they  appear  to  expect  a  great 
deal  of  you.  I  like  having  a  great  deal  expected  of 
me,  for  I  can  do  just  that  much.  When  nothing  is 
expected  of  me"— she  unconsciously  glanced  m 
Henrietta's  direction— "I  do  nothing,  that  is,  until 
I  simply  can't  stand  it— then  I  do  something  dread- 
ful." ^     ,.  ,    „ ,       , 

Ezra  Edge  laughed  indulgently.    Leslies    c' -ad- 

ful  things"  always  reHected  upon  herself  alone— 
her  sense  of  honor  was  so  great  that  she  never  al- 
lowed Tom  or  Henrietta  to  share  her  disgrace,  but 
neither  did  they  share  her  glory  in  the  speechless 
admiration  of  the   few  children  with  whom  she 
elected  to  play,  while  committing  these  deeds  of 
reckless  disobedience  and  palpable  danger.    She  was 
ahvavs  the  nimble  creature  of  fancy,  swinging  peril- 
ously from  a  rafter  in  the  barn— the  others  implor- 
ing her,  in  shrieks  of  terror,  to  return  to  the  safe, 
if  prosaic  foundation  of  the  floor  beside  them;  it 
was  Leslie,  who  sprinkled  herself  with  a  thin  coat- 
ing of  straw  and  stood  transfixed  with  rapture  at 
her  own  courage  while  she  set  herself  alight— the 
noble  Joan  d'Arc  could  not  have  known  a  moment 
of  greater  or  more  intense  glorification. 

The  genuine  agony  of  Tom,  Henrietta,  and  the 
other  cnildren,  abandoning  their  priestly  and  mob- 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


23 


bish  roles  to  quench  the  flames,  only  added  joy  to 
her  dramatic  temperament;  it  was  always  Leslie 
who  led,  and  the  others  who  obediently  followed. 

If  she  urged  them  into  mischief  she  also  exoner- 
ated them  from  all  blame  and  took  what  punishment 
was  meted  out  to  her,  with  Spartan  courage  and 
Stoic  indifference. 

Had  the  Edges  wished  to  curb  these  flights  of 
fancy  and  their  of  times  disastrous  results,  they 
should  have  punished  the  others,  and  let  Leslie  go 
free.  But  parents  and  guardians  usually  have  a 
poor  perspective  and  need  the  children  or  charges 
themselves,  to  show  them  the  way. 

Sometimes  in  desperation  she  would  ask: 

"Henny,  what  shall  we  do?"  or,  "Tom,  can't  you 
suggest  something  really  thrilling?"  but  invariably 
with  the  same  result — that  of  having  to  do  all  the 
planning  and  organizing  herself. 

What  wonder  that  she  was  spoiled — or  was  she 
spoiled?  Is  a  child  spoiled  who  always  has  her 
own  way?  Yes?  But  why,  if  her  way  is  better 
than  that  of  her  associates?  Who  could  assert 
that  Sophie  Edge  was  a  better  guide  for  Leslie  than 
Leslie,  herself?  If  the  credit  of  the  child's  up- 
bringing was  due  to  any  one  it  was  due  to  Ceciley, 
though  that  faithful  soul  often  averred  that  "Miss 
Leslie  was  one  of  those  children  who  is  born 
brought  up,  and  educated!" 


24 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


CHAPTER  IV. 

At  fifteen,  with  only  such  schooling  as  could  be 
had  in  Edgeville,  a  settlement  of  old  maids  and 
miasma,  Leslie  Loring  entered  Madame  Bagneaus 
Finishing  School.  No  one,  not  even  vigilant  Ceci- 
ley,  knew  the  nights  of  agony  and  self-disciphne 
the  child  lived  through,  preparatory  to  leaving  the 
little  realm  where  she  had  reigned  supreme. 

For,  naturally  analytical,  the  girl  was  more,  she 
was  clever  enough  to  realize  her  own  short-commgs 
and  limitations. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  to  herself,  over  and  over 
again,  with  a  perfectly  gigantic  amount  of  self- 
confidence.  "I  can  pretend  that  I  know  a  lot  more 
than  I  do,  and  make  them  believe  it,  too,  though 
they  are  not  as  stupid  as  Miss  Carson— or  Lew  Hig- 
gins,"  she  added  with  a  contemptuous  little  laugh, 
which  would  have  upset  that  gentleman's  digestive 
organs  greatlv.  he  being  a  prey  to  nervous  dys- 
pepsia, only  warded  off  by  great  care,  and  the  gen- 
eral homage  and  consideration  of  the  public.   "But 
the  question  is,  do  I  want  to?    I  am  going  to  be 
clever!    Isn't  it  better  to  be  a  little  more  ignorant 
even  now,  and  be  really  sure  of  things  afterward, 
than  to  have  a"— she  hesitated  for  a  word  suffi- 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


25 


ciently  lofty — "superficial  knowledge  both  now  and 
ever  afterward?  Heavens,  if  these  geese  here  only 
knew  the  truth — how  often  I  am  stumped  for  an- 
swers, and  the  way  to  get  information  for  them, 
they  would  laugh!  I  often  remind  myself  ov  Lew 
Higgins  who  was  never  known  to  say,  'I  don't 
know !'  Who  could  learn  anything  at  school  here  ?" 
she  asked  herself  a  little  bitterly.  "I  know  all  the 
questions  they  ask  me  from  the  books,  and  they 
don't  know  the  ones  I  ask,  and  I  have  nowhere  to 
find  them.  Oh,  what  joy  to  have  some  one  to  an- 
swer things! 

"I  don't  know  how  girls  treat  each  other" — then 
a  little  guiltily — "they  might  look  upon  me  as  I  do 
Henrietta,  and  I  could  not  bear  that!  Of  course, 
it  would  only  be  at  first  they  would  dare,  for  after 
I  am  told  what  to  learn,  I  can  do  it  faster  and  bet- 
ter than  they,  most  likely,"  she  thought. 

Too  proud  to  discuss  the  matter  with  Ceciley, 
for  fear  of  revealing  her  lack  of  self-confidence, 
Leslie  sometimes  for  the  sheer  satisfaction  of  test- 
ing her  strength,  spoke  of  her  change  of  conditions 
to  Henrietta  and  Tom, 

"You  will  have  to  wear  your  best  things  every 
day,  mama  says,"  announced  the  former  with  a 
mixture  of  awe  and  commiseration — "that  is  the 
way  city  people  live." 

"Say,  Les,  what  would  you  do,  if  you  couldn't 
learn  their  way?"  asked  Tom,  more  to  tease  than 
for  information.  The  question  was  answered  by  a 
withering,  contemptuous  look. 


26 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


It  was  characteristic  of  Leslie  that  she  did  not 
waste  a  moment's  thought  upon  the  possibility  of 
being  unable  to  do  what  was  required  of  her— her 
source  of  anxiety  lay  in  the  uncertainty  of  how 
she  would  be  received— liked,  in  other  words. 

Supersensitive,  high-strung,  and  more  than 
ordinarily  affectionate,  a  cold,  critical  reception  by 
the  girls  would  have  imperilled  her  happiness  for 
months.  She  realized  how  dependent  she  had  be- 
come upon  the  affection  of  these  country  children 
—their  whole-souled  "our-queen-can-do-no-wrong" 
attitude,  and  knew  she  would  miss  it.  Tlie  femi- 
nine was  potent  enough  to  call  for  purple  raiment 
and  hand  embroidered  linen,  but  Ceciley  attended  to 
most  A  her  shopping,  entirely  by  catalogue,  still 
even  catalogue  clothes,  if  selected  judicially,  have 
a  certain  "air,"  and  Leslie  never  felt  that  she 
looked  in  any  way  like  a  country  girl:  she  was 
very  particular  about  her  dress,  always  feehng  its 
influence  unconsciously  confirming  the  family  dic- 
tum— "Fine  feathers  make  fine  birds." 

No,  notliing  disturbed  her  as  much  as  the  wor- 
rying thought  that  she  had  to  make  good  before  a 
more  critical  audience  than  she  had  ever  known. 
To  some  people  the  knowledge  of  a  conflict  brings 
out  much  latent  power,  and  they  marshall  all  their 
forces  to  meet  the  emergency.  Leslie  was  more 
like  a  sensitive  phnt,  thriving,  blossoming,  bring- 
ing forth  it's  loveliest  and  best,  at  the  gardner's 
gentle  touch,  at  the  sun's  affectionate  warmth.  She 
knew  that  if  her  reception  were  a  cold  one  she  could 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


27 


not  fight  to  win  the  love  and  esteem  of  the  girls— 
if  they  gave  it  at  first,  well,  she  was  quite  sure  of 
holding  it. 

However,  Madame's  Select  Academy  opened  wel- 
coming arms  to  Leslie,  her  three  trunks  and  maid. 
Several  of  the  young  ladies  had  maids,  and  in- 
cidentally Ceciley  began  to  receive  her  education, 
quite  free  of  charge.     Current  ideas  in  dress,  the 
fashions  of  the  day,  etc.,  were  made  the  founda- 
Ition  of  her  curriculum;  extravagances  which  she 
had  long  since  forgotten  returned  with   startling^ 
vividness  and  ease  of  performance   (Kitty  Loring 
had  been  noted  for  her  extravagant  absurdities); 
and  now  Leslie,  under  Madame's  tutelage,  bid  fair 
to  eclipse  her  mother.     Little  luxuries  were  added 
every  week  to  the  expense  list,  such  as  perfumed 
[powder  for  the  bath,  incense  burned  under  the  ex- 
jcuse  of  fumigation,  an  appalling  amount  of  toilet 
[accessories,  until  even  Albert  Matheson,  whom  Mrs. 
JAshbury  had  appointed  guardian  and  trustee  of 
-cslie  and  her  afifairs,  Icoked  with  curiosity  and 
wonderment  at  the  bills. 

During  the  years  spent  in  Edgeville  the  Loring 
interests  had  thriven,  and,  save  for  overwhelming 
surprise  that  such  a  leap  from  self-enforced  penury 
^o  Florentine  extravagance  was  accomplished,  in 
50  short  a  time,  there  was  no  murmur  from  Leslie's 
jardian. 

For  a  few  years,  some  of  which  were  spent  under 
pe  tutelage  of  Madame — and  her  pupils — and  some 
kpent  roaming  this  continent  and   several  others. 


28 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


r> 


there  was  urgent  need  of  all  the  funds  in  trust  for 
Miss  Loring.  Then  at  twenty-one  something  of 
the  restlessness  subsided  and  she  announced  her  in- 
tention of  living  a  la  bachelor  maid,  in  a  New  Yorfe 
apartment.  Mr.  Matheson  was  filled  with  guar- 
dianly  consternation — he  had  seen  comparatively  lit- 
tle of  his  ward,  and  looked  upon  her  as  a  young 
lady  of  particularly  unique  and  lawless  whims.  She 
denied  being  too  young,  saying  that  age  is  not  a 
matter  of  years,  but  of  wisdom  and  experience. 

Edgeville  was  indignant  and  sniffed.  It  is  per- 
missible to  sniff  in  Edgeville.  the  fashion  having 
been  set  by  the  Reverend  Mrs.  Clapham  herself,  who 
had  her  own  peculiar  contemptuous  lifting  of  the 
nostrils,  accompanied  by  a  short  and  salient  hiss; 
but  Leslie,  impervious  to  protests  and  sniffs,  signed 
a  long  lease  and  "settled."  She  had  made  many 
friends  during  her  school  days,  and  several  more 
while  travelling,  besides  New  York  is  every  one's 
Mecca,  and  to  be  the  centre  of  things  was  breath  in 
the  nostrils  of  Leslie  Loring. 

With  Ceciley  as  a  combination  lady's  maid  and 
duenna,  and  with  an  excellent  and  devoted  English 
girl  for  everything  else,  the  domestic  arrangement 
of  the  menage  did  not  cause  its  mistress  great  un- 
easiness, and  she  had  ample  time  for  such  dissipa- 
tion as  her  fancy  dictated. 

Yet,  withal,  Leslie's  life  was  not  empty  by  any 
means.  Association  with  Margaret  Crowley  acted 
as  a  splendid  ballast,  if  she  really  stood  in  need  of 
it.    There  were  slumming  clubs,  real  working  orga- 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


29 


nizations,  doing  much  good  to  the  toil-hardened, 
crime-burdened  creatures  of  the  tenements;  there 
was  a  cooking  class,  and  a  Reading  club,  sewing 
school  and  the  newsboys'  club,  all  of  which  appealed 
to  the  young  girl,  and  to  which  she  devoted  her 
best  energies  enthusiastically  in  turn. 

Many  times  she  was  cruelly  imposed  upon,  allow- 
ing herself  to  be  persuaded  that  it  was  her  duty 
to  do  more  work  then  the  other  members  because 
she  had  no  home  ties  or  inconveniences.  She  was 
never  idle,  for  when  not  actually  engaged  in  some 
sort  of  work,  she  was  diligently  reading.  In  other 
words,  Leslie  "developed." 

She,  herself,  felt  it,  and  radiated  that  knowledge 
in  a  startling  degree,  when  on  the  night  of  her 
twenty-first  birthday  Albert  Matheson,  looking  at 
her  with  different  eyes,  rose  from  the  dinner  table, 
and  proposed  a  toast  in  these  words : 

"To  the  youngest  sage  on  record,  to  the  most 
complex  female  it  has  yet  been  granted  us  to 
know,  to  the  combination  of  iridescent  wit,  and 
angelic  gentleness,  to  the  queen  of  our  hearts  and 
the  goddess  of  our  reason — ^Lesue!" 


30 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


CHAPTER  V. 

Sitting  listlessly  in  her  room,  just  as  Don  had 
left  her,  Leslie  lived  over  these  years  bit  by  bit, 
with  an  acute  sense  of  loneliness  which  grew  mo- 
mentarily stronger.  As  is  so  often  the  case,  at  the 
time  of  a  sudden  shock,  she  was  mercifully  dulled 
to  the  larger,  more  vital  issues,  and  only  the  triviali- 
ties occurred  to  her. 

"How  queer  not  to  see  him  at  the  table  on  Sun- 
days," she  mused,  half  aloud,  "and  tvliat  endless 
days  without  a  telephone  call  from  him!" 

The  tones  of  his  voice  recurred  vividly  to  her, 
and  two  scalding  tears  splashed  on  her  clasped 

hands. 

"He's  dead,"  she  repeated  u'  ily,  "really  dead. 
I  know  I  shall  forget  and  'phone  him  some  day. 
How  silly  I  am !    I  tell  you  he  is  dead !" 

Ceciley  passed  quietly  through  the  room.  The 
woman  knew  intuitively  as  a  mother  would,  how  to 
handle  the  various  moods  to  which  her  young  mis- 
tress was  prone.  In  this  instance  a  glance  at  the 
dejected  figure  was  sufficient,  and  instead  of  asking 
Leslie  to  lie  down  or  suggesting  a  cup  of  tea, 
Ceciley  went  straight  to  her  heart's  idol  and  gently 
undid  her  veil.     Then  she  took  off  the  fur  toque 


\,\ 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


31 


and  ran  her  fingers  lovingly  through  Leslie's 
golden  hair. 

"Was  he  very  h^d,  my  baby  darling?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  was  the  vag^ue  reply;  "I  don't 
know  how  bad  they  ever  are.  He  tried  to  smile  and 
joke — Oh,  Ceciley,  how  dreadful  to  think  he  is 
gone !    I  can't  believe  it,  can  you  ?" 

"Not  yet,  lamb,  not  yet." 

"And  in  a  couple  of  weeks  think  another  birth- 
day will  be  here,  and  what  on  earth  will  the  dinner 
be  without  him?" 

Ceciley  did  not  answer,  and  the  girl  went  on 
musingly : 

"The  first  one  seems  only  yesterday,  and  it  was 
really  four  long  years  ago.  Don't  you  remember 
Ceciley,  how  much  afraid  of  him  I  was,  and  how 
he  seemed  to  avoid  me  ?" 

"Ah,  but  there  was  a  good  reason  for  that,  my 
darling,"  interrupted  the  maid,  anxious  to  take 
up  imaginary  cudgels  in  defense  of  a  man  she  had 
long  considered  a  hero,  a  god  among  men.  "You 
reminded  him  of  Miss  Kittv,  in  looks,  you  see,  but 
were  so  different  otherwise  he  could  not  get  used 
to  you,  I  think — not  until  after  that  first  party, 
wasn't  it?  Then  he  really  seemed  to  think  of  you 
and  Miss  Kitty  separately,  and  each  of  you  had  her 
own  place." 

She  paused,  secretly  pleased  at  the  lucid  explana- 
tion she  had  given  Leslie  of  something  the  girl  had 
already  known. 

"I  wonder  why  mother  did  not  marry  him?"  was 


1^ 


32 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


Leslie's  next  thought,  spoken  aloud,  and  while  the 
reason  was  clear  enough  to  herself,  Ceciley  found 
it  a  little  harder  to  explain. 

"Perhaps  she  knew  him  too  well — I  mean  knew 
what  to  expect.  You  see,  Miss  Kitty  was  not  as — 
as  brainy  as  you  are,  baby  darling,  she  was  all 
for  surprises,  show,  and  glitter,  and  when  Colonel 
Ashbury  came  to  her  one  evening  all  dressed  up  m 
a  scarlet  suit  just  covered  with  gold  braid  and  tas- 
sels, I  said  to  myself  the  instant  I  clapped  eyes  on 
him — 'tis  good-bye,  forever,  to  your  chances,  Mr. 
Matheson — and  so  it  was." 

"But  she  must  have  loved  him,"  argued  Kitty's 
daughter,  clinging  to  her  point,  "for  you  say  that 
always  her  first  thought  in  everything  was  of  him." 

"Not  exactly,"  corrected  the  maid.  "No,  I  did 
not  say  just  that;  I  said  that  before  any  one  else 
she  turned  to  him,  even  before  the  colonel,  and 
when  she  found  we  would  have  to  leave  that  pois- 
oned place  in  India,  she  even  had  an  idea  of  send- 
ing us  right  to  him — only  for  the  talk  it  would 
have  made.  That  was  why  she  put  your  money  in 
his  keeping  too— he  always  did  everything  in  just 
the  way  to  please  her,  and  she  trusted,  absolutely,  in 
him." 

The  telephone  rang,  and  Leslie  walked  into  her 
little  study  opening  off  the  living-room  to  answer 
it,  supposing  Don  to  be  calling  her. 

As  she  put  the  receiver  to  her  ear,  turning  her 
back  to  the  door,  Hattie,  the  maid,  passed  along  the 
hallway  leading  to  the  front  door  of  the  apartment 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


33 


She  knew  nothing  of  her  mistress's  distress  of 
mind,  and  unhesitatingly  admitted  Mrs.  Stearns, 
who  was  a  frequent  visitor,  and  a  gentleman,  with- 
out the  evavive,  "I'll  see." 

Vera  seeing  Leslie  at  the  'phone,  signalled  Tres- 
sidar  tf  tiptoe  and  ?at  down  patiently,  so  that  for 
Leslie  <  'no  sweetly  but  persistently  refused  Mar- 
garet's urgent  request  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
her,  there  was  no  escape. 

"I  ran  in,  sans  ceremonie,"  began  Vera,  in  her 
tense,  enthusiastic  style,  "palpably  to  ask  you  to  a 
party,  but  actually — let  this  secret  be  buried  with 
you" — she  admonished  in  a  heavy,  mysterious 
whisper,  "actually  to  display  the  prize,"  waving  a 
neatly  gauntleted  hand  in  Tressidar's  direction. 

Leslie  laughed  a  little.  It  was  hard  not  to  laugh 
at  Vera,  and,  anyway,  the  mention  of  her  grief 
would  be  quite  out  of  place,  at  this  time;  at  best 
Tressidar  could  only  evince  a  polite  interest  in  her 
guardian,  and  so  she  decided  with  characteristic 
rapidity,  to  get  through  the  visit  as  cheerfully  as 
possible,  and  let  Vera  find  out  the  sad  news  for 
herself,  later.  Something  in  the  nature  of  jealousy 
prompted  this  secretiveness  on  the  girl's  part,  jeal- 
ousy that  Albert  Matheson's  memory  be  as  tenderly 
handled  as  she  and  Don  Crowley  could  wish. 

"Well?"  Mrs.  Stearns  interrupted  impatiently, 
while  the  other  two  were  going  through  the  cus- 
tomary greeting,  "have  you  nothing  to  say  to  either 
proposition?" 


34 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


"When  is  the  party?"  questioned  Leslie,  with  a 
view  to  being  released. 

"Vulgar  and  material  being! '  scoffed  the  widow. 
"Let  me  point  this  out  to  you,  Mr.  Tressidar — that 
she  fastens  upon  these  earthly  matters  in  preference 
to  drawing  psychic  inferences  as  to  our — affinity, 
shall  I  say?  or  such  a  prob'em  as  'How  I  bagged 
the  lion.'  That  doesn't  sound  exactly  right,  some- 
how," she  rattled  on  at  high  speed,  "bagging  a  lion ! 
No  matter,  such  trivialities  do  not  interest  me! 
The  main  thing  is " 

"Vera" — Leslie's  voice  had  a  tired  note  of  ap- 
peal in  it,  which  Tressidar  noticed,  though  his  com- 
panion did  not.  Vera  Stearns  was  not  an  observant 
person.  Given  an  errand  of  mercy  to  perform,  the 
angels  in  heaven  could  not  carry  it  out  more  satis- 
factorily, but  she  was  singularly  obtuse  about  find- 
ing an  errand,  as  it  were.  "Vera,"  repeated  Leslie, 
"do  be  rational  one  moment  while  I  as'tc  Mr.  Tres- 
sidar to  ring  for  tea.  Since  I  must  contradict  your 
invective,  in  self-defense,  I  would  say  that  I  ap- 
proached the  subject  of  your  late  conversation  sys- 
tematically, that  is,  taking  up  the  first  one  Urst, 
and  intending,  in  proper  order,  to  revert  to  the  next. 
I  shall  seize  this  occasion  to  ask  you  how  you 
bagged  the  lion.    Is  that  what  you  wanted?" 

"Viper,"  laughed  Vera.  "Shame  upon  you  for 
an  unnatural  female,  disclosing  the  foibles  of  your 
sex,  thusly !  I  am  only  'making  conversation,' " 
she  continued,  raising  a  serious  face  to  Tressidar, 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


35 


"while  tea  is  coming.    There  is  something  strangely 
amiss  with  me,  I  fear." 

"Yes,"  Algy  said,  with  polite  interest. 

"Um-hum,"  vouched  Mrs.  Stearns.  "The  sight 
of  food  does  not  appeal  to  me — really" — she  seemed 
to  contradict  an  unspoken  thought  of  her  hostess — 
"but  the  anticipation  of  it— dear  me,  the  very  idea 
of  a  cup  of  tea,  and  some  of  those  delightful  bis- 
cuits Hattie  makes — Oh,  here  she  is!  Mr.  Tressi- 
dar,  the  smelling  salts,  quickly!  I  feel  a  faintness 
coming  on,  Leslie  is  so  exasperating'y  deliberate." 

"Well,  how  did  you  bag  the  lion?"  Leslie  in- 
quired again,  after  giving  her  guests  tea. 

Mrs.  Stearns  laughed  delightedly,  as  a  child 
might;  a  child,  who  despairing  of  an  opportunity 
for  displaying  its  best  parlor  tricks,  at  last  sees  an 
enviable  opening. 

"Heavens,  I  was  so  afraid  I  wouldn't  get  t'.^ 
chance,"  she  murmured.  "I  'phoned  him  at  the 
club,  Les,  darling,  and  asked  him  to  help  me  'zvheel 
away  the  afternoon.'  He  caught  the  idea  nicely, 
in  other  words,  I  am  trying  Salome  this  afternoon 
for  the  first  time  in  the  dogcart,  and  he  soon  was 
trapped.     Entirely  original,  miss!" 

Leslie  laughed  appreciatively,  and  looked  at  Tres- 
sidar  over  her  tea  cup.  It  was  impossible  not  to 
laugh  when  in  Vera's  vicinity.  At  Madame's,  as 
schoolmates,  the  two  girls  had  been  considered  tem- 
peramentally identical.  So  much  for  the  casual 
observer.  But  Leslie  had  all  of  Vera's  vivacity  and 
wit,  with  something  infinitely  finer  and  deeper  than 


36 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


the  other  could  dream  of.  To  the  T  Jishtnan, 
making  swift  comments,  spurred  by  an  unusual 
curiosity,  Leslie  at  that  moment  far  eclipsed  her 
friend  in  general  attractiveness — a  fact  he  had  not 
recognized  until  now. 

Almost  instantly,  however,  the  light  died  out  of 
her  eyes,  and  she  gave  him  the  impression  of  being 
either  bored,  or  dull,  or  both.  He  began  to  wish 
that  Mrs.  Stearns  Avould  "wheel"  him  away — he 
was  not  accustomed  to  see  a  bored  look  upon  a 
woman's  face. 

"I  have  another  piece  of  news,"  Vera  was  say- 
ing, "you  can  never  guess  who  is  going  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

"You,"  suggested  Leslie. 

"Silly,"  expostulated  the  little  widow,  growing 
foolishly  pink.     "It  is  a  man." 

"Well,  of  course,"  teased  Leslie,  marvelling  in- 
wardly at  her  sang  froid,  and  wondering  if  they 
would  never  go.  "You  could  not  marry  a  woman. 
Who  is  the  lucky  person?" 

"Cat,"  snapped  the  other.  "Fancy,  Mr.  Tressi- 
dar,  fancy  calling  my  prospective  husband  a  'per- 
son' 1" 

"A  shade  better  than  calling  him  a  'party,' 
though,"  Algy  suggested. 

"Yes,  perhaps.  Well,  no  matter,  let  it  pass.  I 
was  referring" — this  with  exaggerated  hauteur— 
"to  Mr.  Walter  Bryce." 

"Walter  Bryce !"  echoed  Leslie. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


37 


"The  same,  my  dear."    Vera  leaned  back  com- 
fortably, better  to  watch  her  friend's  astonishment. 

"Why,  that  is" — she  began,  then  remembering 
Tressidar — "I  am  simply  aghast,"  she  continued, 
speaking  to  him  directly,  for  the  first  time,  "because 
this  boy  has  been  a  most  trying  in^^eritance  to  his 
doting  aunts,  has  committed  most  oi  the  sins  on  the 
calendar,  and  has  brought  them  no  end  of  trouble. 
The  one  saving  grace  was  that  he  had  refrained 
from  bringing  them  an  extra  worry  in  the  shape  of 
a  wife.    His  two  aunts.  Miss  Libby  and  Miss  Polly, 
are,  of  course,  to  blame,  for  they  never  let  him 
lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  he  was  the  very  world 
to  them.    From  this  limited  point  of  view  his  ideas 
began  to  assume  gigantic  proportions,  and  he  finally 
became  assured  that  the  king  could  do  no  wrong. 
Before  he  had  fairly  gone  through  college  he  had 
gone  also  through  a  very  large  sum  of  money,  out- 
millionairing  the  millionaires  themselves  in  his  play- 
ful extravagances,  and  since  then  he  has  been  too 
much  of  a  gentleman  to  work." 
She  stopped,  a  little  confused. 
"Of  course  you  can't  sympathize,  quite,  can  you? 
I  believe  in  your  country,  that  idea  is  still  prevalent 
— that  of  a  gentleman  being  exempt  from  work." 

"Under  some  conditions,"  Tressidar  answered. 
"From  what  you  have  told  me,  however,  it  seems 
only  right  that  this  chap  should  have  done  some- 
thing to  repay  his  atmts — in  that  I  quite  agree." 

Vera  spoke.  "He  never  had  an  idea  of  doing 
such  a  thing,  he  bleeds  them  unmercifully,  he  makes 


38 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


If  h- 


S| 


Mi 


an  asset,  with  diabolical  cleverness,  of  his  depen- 
dence upon  them,  he  works  on  their  sympathies  and 
trades  upon  their  love  for  him,  and  they — well, 
they  are  just  geese,  that's  all,"  she  ended  vehe- 
mently. 

"Yes,"  murmured  Leslie  sadly,  "doting,  loving, 
blind  old  geese.  They  can't  see  him  as  he  is,  and 
I  don't  know  of  any  one  who  would  care  for  the 
task  of  enlightening  them." 

"Very  sad,  indeed,  for  them."  Algy  was  quite 
interested,  not  in  the  story  of  Walter  Bryce,  that 
was  nothing  to  him,  but  in  the  varying  expressions 
of  Leslie's  face,  so  many  of  the  women  he  knew 
had  long  since  stifled  the  ability  to  show  any  real 
feeling,  this  display  of  Miss  Loring's  was  a  treat. 
Her  face  had  a  familiar 

"Oh,  dear,  it's  time  for  me  to  go,"  Vera  inter- 
rupted, "when  Leslie  looks  like  that  she  is  either 
getting  ready  to  moralize  or  she  is  going  to  make 
us  all  cry.  That  used  to  be  one  of  her  star  tricks 
at  school,  Mr.  Tressidar,  making  us  cry." 

"Re-hally?"  asked  the  Englishman. 

"Re-hally !"  mimicked  Vera,  "We  used  to  make 
bets  that  she  couldn't,  but  she  always  could.  By 
the  way,  Les,  you  have  had  me  on  the  verge  of 
tears  several  times  this  afternoon;  I  felt  something 
sad,  truly  I  did!  Don't  tell  me  that  my  psychic 
sense  is  at  fault!     What  was  the  matter?" 

They  stood  at  the  door  leading  into  the  hallway, 
and  Tressidar  held  it  open  for  Mrs.  Stearns  to 
pass  through. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


39 


"Humph?"  she  asked. 

A  look  of  pain  darkened  Leslie's  eyes,  and  her 
voice  had  lost  something  of  its  steadiness  as  she 
answered : 

"Don  and  I  were  with  Mr.  Matheson  whin  he 
died  just  a  httle  while  before  you  came." 


40 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


■  \u 

■    ■■'V' 


\f 


V 


lU 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  club  was  a  dreary  place  on  the  following  day 
but  one,  and  Tressidar  had  half  made  up  his  mind 
to  leave  New  York  and  journey  southward  for  a 
month  or  so,  until  the  members  had  recovered  from 
the  effect  of  Matheson's  death.  It  was  rather  a 
novel  experience  to  Algy— this  genuine  grief  for 
the  loss  of  a  man.  He  remembered  a  serious  alter- 
cation, with  his  brother  a  few  years  past,  resulting 
from  a  total  absence  of  regret  on  his  part  for  a 
lost  comrade.  Ramsay  Tressidar  had  stood  gazing 
at  the  photo  of  a  friend  whose  death  should  have 
meant  much  to  both  brothers,  when  Algy  entered 
the  room.  Seeing  him,  Ramsay  sighed  and  said, 
"Poor,  dear  Cyril!" 

The  younger  man  laughed  outright,  "What 
maudlin  rot,"  he  scoffed.  "Poor,  dear  Cyril,  in- 
deed 1" 

It  was  a  quarrel  to  be  remembered,  ending  just 
where  it  began,  Ramsay  Tressidar  claiming  that  he 
was  no  less  a  man  to  show  regret  and  say  "poor, 
dear  Cyril,"  and  Algy  contending  that  it  was  ridic- 
ulous sentimentalism,  and  that  he  would  not  be  sur- 
prised to  find  a  strand  of  the  dead  man's  hair  in  his 
brother's  locket. 

Something  of  the  same  resentment  against  the 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


41 


club  men  now  passed  over  their  guest,  and  he  was 
wondering  how  to  put  in  the  afternoon  when  an  os- 
tentatious young  man  approached  him,  and,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand,  asked : 

"Tressidar?  Ah,  I  thought  so.  My  name  is 
Bryce — Walter  Bryce.  What  will  you  drink?" 
They  lighted  cigarettes  and  moved  toward  the  open 
fire. 

"You  must  find  it  beastly  dull  around  here  to- 
day, every  one  has  gone  to  poor  old  Matheson's 
funeral.  Awfully  good  sort — you  know.  My 
aunts  thought  the  world  of  him;  in  fact,  but  for 
him,  I  should  not  be  here  now,"  the  young  man 
ended  with  a  laugh,  combining  embarrassment  and 
contempt. 

Tressidar  was  bored — Bryce's  type  did  not  ap- 
peal to  him  in  the  slightest  degree;  the  affectation 
in  his  manner  and  dress  was  irritating,  the  mis- 
placed boil  camaraderie,  amounting  to  undue  famil- 
iarity offended  Algy's  sensitiveness,  and,  above  all, 
his  loquaciousness  repelled  him,  but  here  apparently 
was  a  willing  spirit  with  whom  to  drink.  A  kind 
of  exhilaration  took  possession  of  him,  a  serious 
form  of  he  craving,  about  which  Vera  Stearns 
had  spoken  so  lightly  in  reference  to  her  afternoon 
tea.  Although  the  men  whom  he  had  met  had  not 
impressed  him  as  being  at  all  narrow-minded  or 
abstemious,  still,  there  was  a  certain  feeling  of 
delicacy,  a  restraint  with  them  which  Algy  was 
quick  to  note,  and  so  far  he  had  curbed  his  thirst 
admirably. 


1' 

r 
s 

if  Is 


42 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


if 


With  Walter  Bryce,  however,  all  that  restraint 
vanished,  and  a  keen  look  at  his  weak  face  was 
sufficient  guarantee  to  Tressidar  of  a  thoroughly 
enjoyable  evening. 

"But  for  Matheson,  I  was  saying,"  Bryce  con- 
tinued over  his  glass,  "I  should  not  have  been  here 

now." 

"Re-hally?"  asked  Algy,  with  flattering  interest. 

"You  see  the  old  girls— my  aunts— are  just 
about  two  centuries  behind  the  times,  and  they  can't 
understand  or  sympathize  with  me"— Walter  threw 
an  immense  amount  of  pathos  and  bitterness  into 
this  statement,  which  was  all  too  true,  they  never 
could  understand  such  as  he— "you  know  yourself, 
Tressidar,  if  you  are  a  University  man,  that  one 
has  to  fall  in  line,  so  to  speak,  and  keep  the  ball 
rolling  in  a  more  or  less  individual  way." 

The  Englishman  nodded  appreciatively,  and  beck- 
oned the  steward. 

"Why,  they  would  have  made  a  parson  out  of 
me,  I  suppose,  if  I  had  allowed  it.  But  coming 
back  to  Matheson,  he  sort  of  stood  sponsor  for  me 
here,  not  that  I  really  needed  it,  you  understand, 
but  they  thought  a  club  would  be  my  undoing,  I 
suppose,  and  Matheson  could  have  kept  me  out, 
had  he  wished.  Fancy  being  treated  like  a  school- 
boy!    No  wonder  I  break  loose  once  in  a  while, 

is  it?" 

"It  would  be  surprising,  otherwise,"  replied  the 
other  with  conviction.  Walter  began  to  grow  more 
interesting. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


43 


Here  was  a  really  pretty  problem — two  conven- 
tional maiden  ladies,  trying  to  bring  up  a  wayward 
nephew  with  horticultural  predii  ctionc  of  the  wild 
oats  variety,  along  such  puritanical  lines,  that  the 
said  nephew  became  quite  impossible  to  handle,  and 
the  worse  he  became  the  more  saintly,  narrow,  and 
exacting  grew  the  ladies,  hoping,  to  teach  him  by 

precept  until It  was  certainly  a  muddle,  which 

only  could  be  elucidated  by  another  drink. 

"He  was  a  very  good  sort,"  repeated  young 
Bryce,  beginning  to  feel  kindly  disposed  toward 
every  one,  "and  will  be  greatly  missed.  There's 
Crowley,  for  instance,  and  Burnley,  too — know 
him? — who  cared  more  for  him  than  men  of  their 
own  age.  Matheson  was  no  chicken,  remember," 
he  whispered,  with  a  secretive  wink,  although  the 
two  men  were  alone  in  the  room. 

Tressidar  nodded  darkly.  He  realized  the  ab- 
surdity of  Bryce's  conversation  and  actions,  but  it 
did  not  seem  worth  while  to  point  this  out  to  him 
as  yet ;  he  had  not  reached  the  argumentative  point, 
which  always  preceded  a  totally  unconscious  state. 

"Fact!"  whispered  Bryce.  "He  was  old  enough 
to  be  my  father!" 

Six  o'clock  chimed  and  Tressidar  proposed  din- 
ner downtown,  then  the  theatre. 

Seated  once  more  over  their  glasses,  Walter, 
whose  mind  under  these  conditions  ran  for  hours 
along  the  same  line  of  thought,  brought  the  conver- 
sation back  to  Matheson. 

Tressidar  was  differently  constituted.    He  talked 


44 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


about  deeds  of  heroism  or  diplomacy  in  which  he 
had  figured  largely,  jumping  from  one  idea  to  an- 
other with  amazing  rapidity,  and  he  grew  tired  of 
the  name  Matheson. 

"He  had  nothing  particularly  to  recommend 
him,"  he  argued.  "Give  me  a  man  of  muscle,  a 
man  to  whom  hardship  is  nothing.  Why,  I  know 
the  strongest  man  in  London !  S'  the  truth !  And 
how  do  you  suppose  he  got  his  muscle?  Shimply 
by  drawing  up  his  riyjht  arm — so — and  believing- 
that  his  left  one  would  grow  as  strong,  and  it  did!" 

Walter  was  vaf^ucly  impressed. 

"Feel  my  nuiscle,  fed  it."  Algy  insisted,  as  they 
made  tl^.eir  way  into  the  crowded  lobby  of  tlie  thea- 
tre. "Witli  justht  a  little  practice  i  could  have 
muscles  like  tluit  myshelf.  I'm  ash  strong  ash  a 
bull,"  he  boasted  thickly.  "My  God,  it's  hot  in 
here!" 

"Well,  Matheson  was "  began  Bryce  stub- 
bornly. 

"Rot!"  snapped  the  Englishman.  "He  wash 
mush — shimply  mush!  Look  at  his  death,  there's 
a  proof — couldn't  stand  an  attack  of  pneumonia. 
Look  at  me.  Why.  I've  had  enteric  three  timesh, 
and  am  ash  good  to-day  ash  ever." 

But  Walter  was  not  listening;  the  scantily  clad 
chorus  claimed  all  his  attention,  and  he  applauded 
with  flattering  regularity  and  insistence. 

To  the  casual  observer  there  was  nothing  in  Tres- 
sidar's  manner  or  bearing  to  indicate  his  condition. 
He  sat  upright  in  the  box  and  looked  with  easy 


iv 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


45 


indifference  at  the  performance  ,  his  black  hair  lay 
in  glossy  waves  close  to  his  head,  his  bronze  face 
was  very  slightly  flushed,  and  his  inscrutable  yel- 
low eyes  were  comparatively  clear  and  wide  open, 
contracted  ever  so  little,  at  the  corners,  perhaps. 

Walter  presented  a  striking  contrast.  His  fair 
hair  was  in  a  damp,  untidy  mat  on  his  forehead, 
and  with  every  sweep  of  his  hand  to  smooth  away 
an  imaginary  look,  he  made  wild  havoc  upon  the 
tangible  growth. 

Naturally  pink  and  indefinite  looking,  he  looked 
pinker  and  more  unsteady  of  eye  and  mouth  than 
ever.  He  slouched  in  his  chair,  and  did  not  even 
try  to  keep  awake  after  the  first  act  and  intermis- 
sion. Tressidar  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  an 
access  of  self-satisfaction  surged  over  him,  with  a 
prayer  of  thankfulness  that  he  was  not  as  other 
men. 

The  performance  over,  both  men  swayed  along 
with  the  crowd,  one  idea  uppermost — another 
drink. 

Suddenly  Bryce  clutched  his  companion's  arm. 

"There's  Leslie  Loring  over  there,"  he  said. 
"Come  on  and  I'll  introduce  you  to  her." 

"Don't  be  an  ass,"  answered  Tressidar.  "To 
begin  with,  that's  not  Miss  Loring,  and  again — I 
already  know  her." 

"You  do?"  asked  Walter,  in  some  excitement. 
"What  do  you  think  of  her?" 

"Not  a  bad  sort,"  was  the  lofty  reply. 

"Too  independent,"  announced  the  younger  man. 


I* 


46 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


j;*! 


■ '  I 


A 


i     I: 


"The  kind  who  thinks  herself  as  good  or  better  than 
any  man,  and  all  that.  No,"  he  went  on,  focusing 
his  eyes  upon  the  girl  ahead  of  them,  "of  course, 
she  wouldn't  be  here.  She  and  Matheson  were 
great  friends.  The  old  girls,  you  know,  wanted  me 
to  go  in  for  her,  in  fact  I  did  go  to  see  her  quite 

a  lot  just  to  please  them.    You  know "  he  broke 

off  suddenly. 

"Well?" 

"You  know  she  is  worth  about  half,  a  million 

dollars!" 

"Oh,"  said  Tressidar,  not  too  drunk  to  be  dis- 
gusted. There  was  always  alive  that  sense  of 
chivalry  in  him  which  shrunk  from  bringing  a 
woman's  name  into  the  conversation  at  inopportune 
places. 

"I  found  her  too  dogmatic,"  Walter  went  on, 
not  noticing  the  other's  manner,  "too  pedantic  and 
self-as-as-sertive,  we  could  never  get  along  to- 
gether, so  I  told  the  old  girls"— he  began  to  laugh 
cunningly— "I  told  the  old  girls  that  I  could  not, 
with  any  degree  of  honor,  go  in  for  her,  because 
Math-Math-son  was  going  in  for  her  himself. 
Wasn't  that  immense,  eh,  Tressidar?" 

"And  what  did  they  say?" 

Walter  spread  out  his  hands,  and  over  his  pink, 
puffy  face  came  a  look  of  divine  renunciation. 

'Oh,  they  said,  that  being  the  case,  it  would 
never  do  for  me  to  stand  in  Math-Math-s'n's  wayl" 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


47 


CHAPTER  VII. 


"Leslie,  I've  brought  these  letters  to  you — tfiey 
ought  to  be  in  your  keeping,  and  there  is  nothing, 
absolutely  nothing  more,  among  his  papers  of  a 
private  nature.  His  was  the  cleanest  life  I  have 
ever  known." 

Leslie  took  the  package  of  letters  and  held  it 
reverently.  She  knew  before  looking  at  them  that 
they  were  from  her  mother  to  Albert  Matheson, 
flnd  she  knew  before  Don  told  her  that  there  was 
nothing  secreted  in  his  private  effects  that  from 
Don's  chivalrous  point  of  view,  should  be  held 
from  her.  She  came  nearer  than  she  knew  to  lov- 
ing Albert  Matheson. 

Don  spoke  again. 

"Here  is  another  letter  to  you.  If  you  would 
like  to  read  it  now,  I  will  leave  these  other  mat- 
ters and  come  back  some  other  time." 

"No,  no,"  was  the  quick  reply.  "You  are  the 
most  thoughtful  person  in  the  world,  Don,  and  I 
have  no  words  to  tell  you  how  I  appreciate  all  your 
goodness  to  me  during  these  past  two  weeks." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  lowered  her 
head  over  the  papers  in  her  lap.  From  childhood 
she  had  always  been  deeply  affected  by  kindness — 
in  fact,  Mr.  Edge  was  fond  of  teasing  her  now 


ill 


l>l 


48 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


about  an  occasion  when  she  deserved  punishment 
for  some  misdeed,  and  deviating  from  former  pre- 
cedent, he  undertook  to  gently  remonstrate  with  the 
little  girl.  She  bore  the  kind  words  stoically  for 
a  few  moments,  then  bursting  into  a  torrent  of 
passionate  tears,  exclaimed : 

"Oh,  punish  me,  Zee-Zee,  please  punish  me,  but 
don't  be  kind  to  me!" 

And  Don's  untiring  and  unobtrusive  thoughtful- 
ness  was,  in  a  measure,  hard  to  bear ;  she  would  in- 
finitely have  preferred  to  fight  herself,  thus  having 
the  comfort  of  a  counter-irritant.  Having  things 
done  for  her,  always  gave  Leslie  the  sensation  of 
incapability — inertia  would  have  been  death  to  her. 

"Kind  to  you,"  echoed  Crowley.  "Oh,  Leslie, 
darling,  I  know  this  is  not  the  time  to  tell  you, 
but  I  have  kept  it  to  myself  so  long,  and,  sweetheart 
girl,  I  love  you,  love  you,  how  much  you  can  never 
know!"  He  drew  her,  unresisting,  to  him,  and 
kissed  her  hair.  Then  with  trembling  fingers  he 
raised  her  face  to  his  and  very  gently  kissed  her 
lips.  "Do  you  love  me,  ever  so  little,  darling?" 
he  whispered. 

The  girl  did  not  answer  at  once.  Of  course,  be- 
ing quite  alive  to  a  certain  amount  of  her  charm, 
she  could  not  pretend  to  have  been  blind  to  Crow- 
ley's devotion,  but  vaguely  looking  back,  she  real- 
ized that  if  she  considered  the  matter  at  all,  she 
thought  of  Don  as  capable  of  doing  and  acting  the 
same  toward  any  other  woman  in  need  of  a  man's 
help  and  friendship. 


Nil 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


49 


There  had  always  been  a  free  and  normal  good 
fellowship  characterizing  their  acquaintance,  which 
Leslie  did  not  acknowledge  could  hardly  last  for 
ever.  For  nothing  stands  still — not  even  friendship 
— it  either  is  absorbed  into  the  atmosphere  whence 
it  sprung,  or  it  goes  forward  and  develops  into  what 
the  poets  have  been  pleased  to  call  the  divine  pas- 
sion, just  how  divine  it  is — is  entirely  a  matter  of 
the  bank  account. 

So  Don  had  not  been  impersonal.  It  was  be- 
cause he  loved  her.  With  characteristic  prompt- 
ness, Leslie,  almost  forgetful  of  his  presence,  bent 
all  her  mental  energies  upon  this  new  aspect  in  her 
life,  and  was  startled — actually  startled,  when  the 
man,  the  subject  of  her  thoughts,  mistaking  her 
long  silence  for  consent,  suddenly  held  her  close 
against  him,  and  passionatelv  whispered: 

"Mylit.:ewife!" 

Leslie  came  to  herself,  and  very  gently  pushed 
away  from  Don.  She  looked  at  him  with  far  more 
tenderness  than  was  warrantable,  considering  she 
was  going  to  refuse  him. 

Her  very  astonishment  was  a  hindrance,  her  mind 
seemed  clogged,  and  she  cast  about  among  her  shat- 
tered mental  forces  for  firm  means  of  settling  this 
question. 

"Don,"  she  began,  "whether  you  believe  it  or 
not,  I  never  dreamed  that  you  were  in  love  with 
me!  Wait,"  she  held  up  her  hand  with  an  im- 
perious little  gesture,  which  Crowley  had  often  no- 
ticed and  loved,  "I  am  not  going  to  disgust  you 


'  il 


Hi  ■ 


If 


SO 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


with  the  'sisterly'  business,  but  that  attitude  is  the 

best  explanation  I  can  give  of  my " 

"Don't,"  interrupted  the  man.  "Don't  say  it!  I 
believe  you  if  you  tell  me,  Les,  and,  dear  little  girl, 
I  am  not  blaming  you  for  my  afifections  having 
been  hopelessly  misplaced" — he  stopped  a  moment 
— "only — only  every  one  else  noticed  it — even  Mar- 
garet." 

They  both  laughed. 

"The  age  of  romance  and  fluttering  hearts  seems 
to  be  passing,"  Leslie  said,  with  total  lack  of  flip- 
pancy, "and  I  don't  look  for  that  sort  of  love.  But, 
Don,  if  I  promised  to  marry  you,  and  did  not  change 
from  the  way  I  feel  toward  you  now — do  you  know 
I  should  always  be  afraid,  afraid  that  some  one 
would  come,  who  would  make  me  care  as  I  know 
people  do,  this  kind  of  a  person  particularly,"  she 
tapped  herself  gently.  "I  am  made  to  be  extreme," 
she  went  on,  "and  can  imagine  myself  oblivious  to 
everything,  good  advice,  good  opinion,  everything 
but— Him." 

"Leave  that  to  lue,"  Don  answered  vehemently, 
then  he  smiled.  "Trust  me  to  take  good  care  of 
Him.  Say  you'll  give  me  a  fighting  chance,  Les," 
he  begged,  taking  her  hand  again.  "Some  one 
ought  to  have  the  right  to  take  care  of  you,  little 
girl,  and  I  am  conceited  enough  to  think  I  could  do 

it  well." 

His  voice  was  deep  and  tender,  his  dark  blue  eyes 
were  bent  earnestly  upon  her,  and,  raising  her  head, 
Leslie  felt  a  sort  of  thrill  pass  through  her,  at  the 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


51 


sight  of  big,  strong  Don  Crowley  pleading  with 
her. 

It  would  have  been  easy  to  say  yes,  and  drift 
along,  leaving  time  to  find  a  way  of  dissolution. 
She  had  done  that  before,  accepted  a  man  she  knew 
she  would  never  marry,  for  practically  the  same  rea- 
son— she  could  never  realize  his  growing  devotion, 
and  the  obvious  culmination. 

It  seemed  so  futile  when  he  had  thrown  him- 
self not  too  metaphorically  at  her  feet,  to  feign 
surprise — that  is  to  him  it  would  be,  apparently, 
feigned.  But  the  truth  was  that  Leslie,  either 
through  a  certain  perverse  blindness,  or  total  ab- 
sence of  self-appraisement,  was  never  prepared  for 
the  culmination.  It  always  took  her  so  completely 
by  surprise  that  she  had  no  words  of  refusal  ready, 
and  if  she  did  murmur  a  weak  and  faltering  nega- 
tive, misleading  in  its  very  kindness,  there  was 
always  the  same  result  leading  from  the  fatal  words 
— "just  give  me  a  chance — be  fair."  And  true 
sport  that  she  was,  she  always  gave  the  man  a 
chance,  usually  finding  the  reversal  of  the  famous 
dictum  that  "absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder." 
Then,  by  a  judicious  slackening  of  attenion  on  her 
part,  which  often  led  to  harrowing  and  melodra- 
matic scenes,  without  feeling  serious  pangs  at  sever- 
ing the  ties  which  she  had  assumed  under  protest, 
she  dismised  the  unfortunate  man. 

Don  noticed  the  wavering  and  took  instant  ad- 
vantage of  it. 

"I  won't  worry  you  any  more,  now,  dear,"  he 


52 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


i 


I  ill 


li 

pi 


il, 


said,  "but  will  leave  you  to  read  your  letter.  Count 
absolutely  on  me,  never  to  bother  you,  but  I  shall 
wait — always  wait  for  you  to  come  to  me  and  say, 
'Don,  I've  changed  my  mind  about  Him.'  In  the 
meantime,  things  are  as  they  always  were  between 
us,  aren't  they,  Leslie?  You  won't  avoid  me  be- 
cause you  know?" 

And  she,  with  her  rare  gift  of  intuition,  knew 
well  that  she  would  never  change  her  mind,  and 
she  knew  that  things  would  never  be  the  same, 
but  answered  the  last  question  with  the  smile 
which  those  who  knew  her  watched  for. 

"I  shall  make  a  fair  start  by  asking  you  to  take 
me  to  Vera's  to-morrow  night." 

Crowley  had  hardly  closed  the  door  before  Leslie 
tore  open  the  envelope  containing  Albert  Mathe- 
son's  letter  to  her.  Don  had  come  to  explain  that 
he  had  left  all  of  his  property  to  his  beloved  ward 
with  a  very  few  bequests  to  old  friends,  such  as  a 
few  hundred  dollars  each  to  Miss  Polly  and  Miss 
Libby  Bryce,  and  a  hundred  dollars  to  Ceciley,  who, 
when  told  of  her  inheritance,  had  the  first  and  only 
case  of  hysterics  in  the  Loring  family  since  Mrs. 
Stanhope  Ashbury  died. 

Everything  else  was  left  to  Leslie  for  what  rea- 
son the  letter  soon  revealed. 

It  read: 


iil! 


"Little  Leslie  :  When  you  open  this  I  shall  be 
no  more — stop,  you  bad  girl,  don't  blur  these  pages 
with  your  tears — you  know  Old  Guardian  Boy  al- 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


S3 


ways  hated  to  see  you  cry— but  you  must  know  and 
realize  all  through  this  letter,  that  I  am  in  perfect 
health  while  writing  it.  I  am  laughing  at  you  baby 
girl.  Involuntarily  your  mind  turns  to  me  as  you 
last  saw  me,  supposedly  in  a  sickbed,  though  if  I 
have  my  way  and  sufficient  courage,  I  shall  not  let 
them  send  for  you.  However,  chase  that  goblin 
of  regret  away,  and  think  of  me  now,  now— sitting 
at  my  desk  at  home,  sending  you  this  little  note. 

"To  begin  with.  Little  Leslie,  I  want  you  to  know 
that  I  love  every  inch  of  you,  and  that  if  the  years 
go  on  and  you  invite  me  to  ten  or  fifteen  more 
birthday  parties  on  a  little  card  inscribed  Leslie  Lor- 
ing,  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  am  going  to  urge 
you  to  blot  out  the  Loring  and  put  Matheson  in  its 
stead.  There  I've  told  it!  Of  course,  in  such  a 
perfectly  impossible  event,  I  can't  let  you  have  this 
letter,  for  I  will  have  to  write  another  one  'To  my 

wife.' 

"There,  there,  little  silly.  Love,  you  are  crymg 
again,  and  Albert  Matheson  is  one  rare  brute. 
Please  don't,  darling,  for  even  where  I  have  gone  I 
can  see  you,  and  fed  you  crying,  and— good 
heavens,  girl,  look  at  your  nose!  Ah,  that's  bet- 
ter! 

"Now,  listen,  and  for  the  instant  I  am  going  to 
be  very  serious.  I  want  you  to  crush  the  instinct 
to  mourn,  Leslie  dear.  It  is  after  all  a  compara- 
tively new  idea,  and  the  old  one — the  one  of  re- 
joicing for  a  departed  soul  who  has  found  peace- 
was  infinitely  better.     We  both  agreed  that  this 


i  1 1 


54 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


.1 


h 


ii 

1:1 


;? . 


>  i 


fit 


1 1 


l| 


change  called  Death  was  but  the  opening  of  another 
Life,  and  if  not  a  better  one,  why  would  the  Cre- 
ator have  us  make  the  change?  I  am  happy,  I 
have  many  friends  here — and  I  have  Kitty.  But 
you  will  mar  my  happiness  if  you  mourn,  Little 
Leslie;  you  and  Crowley  were  my  little  world,  and 
I  had  hoped  hopes  and  dreamed  dreams  which  I 
thought  wiser  to  confide  only  to  my  old  pipe.  So 
this  applies  to  Don,  loo,  I  want  you  to  think  of 
me,  yes,  and  talk  of  me,  but  weep  for  me,  never! 

"There  was  once  a  chap,  a  friend  of  mine,  who 
died,  and  I  was  asked  to  be  one  of  the  pallbearers. 
As  the  four  of  us  were  driving  home  there  was 
little  attempt  at  conversation.  We  hesitated  to 
speak  cheerfully  for  fear  of  being  thought  heart- 
less, and  we  could  not,  would  not  mourn.  At  last 
I  risked  the  good  opinion  of  the  other  three  and 
told  a  very  funny  story.  After  laughing  appreci- 
atively, one  of  the  other  men  exclaimed,  with  gen- 
uine regret :  'Oh,  how  I  wish  Morton  were  here  to 
enjoy  that  one,  Matheson!' 

"In  just  such  a  way  I  wish  you  all  to  remember 
me.  Will  you  make  the  effort  conscientiously  to 
please  an  old  man  who  would  have  done  anything 
no  matter  how  difficult,  unreasonable,  or  silly,  to 
gratify  your  slightest  whim?  And  explain  this 
earnest  desire  of  mine  to  the  others,  mischievous 
little  Vera,  and  Burnley,  and  the  dear  Bryces. 

"One  thing  more  and  I  am  finished.  I  am  leav- 
ing you  my  material  comforts,  principally  because 
there  is  no  one  else  who  has  any  claim  whatever 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


55 


upon  me.  You  don't  actually  need  the  money,  for 
although  it  grates  upon  my  shrinking  nature,  I 
must  say  that  my  stewardship  of  your  affairs  has 
not  been  unsatisfactory.  However,  I  want  you  to 
reserve  this  little  sum  of  mine,  and  use  it  at  some 
crisis,  some  crucial  moment  in  your  life  (for  we 
all  have  them)  to  help  you  out  of  a  difficulty  or  to 
aid  in  the  fulfilment  of  a  genuine  desire.  I  put 
the  matter  clumsily  because  it  is  vague  even  to  me 
— briefly,  I  feel  that  you  will  want  this  money  some 
day,  for  a  specific  something — and — you  have  it! 

"That  is  all.  Little  Leslie.  The  instant  you  finish 
this  letter  I  ask  you  not  to  stop  to  think  it  over.  I 
want  you  to  do  the  maddest,  most  impulsive  thing 
your  imaginative  brain  can  conjure,  and  when  Don 
is  with  you  the  next  time— or  whoever  is  Don,  then 
talk  it  over,  do  not  think  it ! 

"Albert  Matheson." 

Leslie  sat  a  moment  with  the  letter  in  her  lap,  a 
thousand  thoughts  crying  for  her  notice  and  assort- 
ment. But  true  to  a  trust,  and  feeling  as  one  might 
who  was  turned  round  three  times,  then  told  to 
look  for  the  collar  button,  she  rose  and  walked 
aimlessly  into  the  den.  Just  at  her  hand  was  the 
telephone.  Ah,  so  much  was  accomplished — she 
would  'phone  some  one.  Whom?  Open  upon  the 
table  lay  a  note  of  regret  from  Clifford  Scott,  a 
nice  boy,  the  youngest  member  of  the  club  to  which 
Matheson  belonged.  The  second  point  was  settled. 
She  would  telephone  the  club.    Quite  unexpectedly 


f^^ 


}l 


1 1 


M. 


56 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


the  name  of  Tressidar  occurred  to  her,  with  such 
suddenness,  in  fact,  she  had  the  impression  of  hav- 
ing  heard  it  spoken.  , 

Yes,  Mr.  Tressidar  was  at  that  moment  m  tne 

club;  would  she  wait? 

"Are  you  there,  Mr.  Tressidar?" 
"Yes." 

"This  is  Leslie  Loring." 
"How  do  vou  do?"  came  through  the  receiver, 
gracious,  but  entirely  unsurprised,  unenthusiastic. 
"Oh  I'm  vulgarly  healthy,"  Leslie  answered, 
with  a  tinge  of  petulance.  "Don't  let  us  discuss  my 
health.  I  wanted  to  know  if  you  felt  like  being 
bagged  this  afternoon,  right  away,  or  are  you  al- 
ready in  the  hunter's  toils  ?"  ^ 

"Not  at  all"  (Tressidar  said  "not-a-tall  )  de- 
lighted, I'm  sure.  I  will  come  right  away,  and 
thank  you  so  much.     Good-by." 

Leslie  hung  up  the  receiver  with  a  queer  sense 
of  having  acted  through  no  volition  of  her  own, 
and  sat  dazedly  looking  at  the  clock,  without  see- 
ing it.  It's  chime  suddenly  aroused  her,  and  she 
ran  into  her  room,  calling  for  Ceciley. 

"Come,  dress  me,  quickly ;  I'm  in  a  hurry,  she 
said,  in  rather  an  excited  manner. 

Ceciley  laid  a  snuff-colored  broadcloth  on  the 

couch.  •     L  V      J  T* 

"I  don't  want  to  touch  your  hair,  baby,  dear,    it 

looks  too  lovely  to  be  disturbed." 
Leslie  looked  at  herself  critically,  then  nodded, 

smiling. 


.■■,'i 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


57 


The  gown  was  a  credit  to  Osmonde.  Both  loose 
and  tight,  it  hung  in  clinging,  graceful  folds  over 
the  girl's  rounded  hips,  actuating  her  willowy  slim- 
ness  and  youth  fulness  of  form;  it's  scant  trimming, 
consisting  of  hand-embroidered  bands  of  the  ma- 
terial, lay  in  classic  folds  across  her  breast,  and 
the  long,  tight,  crushed-chiffon  sleeves  completed 
the  effect  of  straightness  and  simplicity. 

Ceciley  put  a  heavy  gold  filagree  band  across  the 
girl's  forehead  and  pulled  out  her  hair  the  least  bit 
over  her  ears.  Under  the  soft  shaded  light  it  had 
a  wonderful  burnished  look,  quite  impossible  to  im- 
itate, and  the  shade  of  the  gown  heightened  that 
effect. 

Mistress  and  maid  were  satisfied,  and  smiled  into 
each  other's  eyes,  as  the  bell  sounded. 

"Tell  Hattie  that  I  think  Mr.  Tressidar  will  be 
here  for  dinner,"  Leslie  said,  laughing,  as  she  left 
the  room. 


58 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


ill- 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

A  day  can  be  busy  in  two  ways ;  one  by  having 
numbers  of  duties  crowded  into  it— dunes  upon 
which  the  mind  must  be  bent  in  harnaanv  with 
their  manual  performance,  and  another,  in  which 
the  mind  does  its  work  alone,  when  there  are  prob- 
lems to  solve,  or  be  considered,  requiring  no  aid 
outside  itself.  There  had  been  m:iny  such  for  Les- 
lie, and  she  used  to  cause  her  friends  much  amuse- 
ment by  saying:  "I  have  been  tremendously  busy 
to-day!" 

"Busy?    Doing  what?" 
"Thinking!" 

To-day  was  another  "thinking  day."     First  there 
was  Don  to  consider  in  a  new  light,  next  was  Mr. 
Matheson's  message,  and  last  there  was  Tressidar. 
Although  quite  positive  that  her  decision  in  re- 
gard to  Don  was  right  and  final,  there  were  sev- 
eral points  to  contemplate.     To  begin  with,  suppose 
she  should  reconsider  him— there  was  every  rea- 
son that  she  should— could  she  ever   love  him? 
"Margaret  and  I  are  the  best  of  friends,  Don  knows 
me  well,  and  in  spite  of  that  loves  me— I  mean  I 
have  never  tried  to  please  him— he  stands  in  just 
such  a  position  to  me,  as  dear  Mathy  did  to  my 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


59 


mother — I  trust  him."  then  she  laughed.  "Why, 
heside  this  comfortable  friendship  1  feel  for  dear 
old  Don,  love  would  be  a  cyclone,  a  tempest,  some- 
thing utterly  beyond  my  control.  No,  I  shall  not 
reconsider  him. 

Then,  she  argued,  she  must  make  her  answer 
more  decisive.  Playing  with  a  man  was  too  much 
at  variance  with  her  high  sense  of  honor,  to  enter 
into  Leslie's  calculation  for  an  instant.  Yet  it 
would  be  awkward,  in  spite  of  what  he  said,  to  be 
constantly  thrown  with  Don,  it  being  quite  impos- 
sible for  either  of  them  to  forget  the  conversation, 
even  though  they  did  not  refer  to  it. 

Leslie  had  often  said  that  she  could  decide  a 
question  in  half  the  time  that  any  one  else  required. 
She  did  it  by  that  wonderful  power  of  concentra- 
tion. She  bent  all  her  energies  upon  the  subject, 
m  the  pros  and  cons  over  in  swift  comparison — 
making  a  clear  mental  picture,  and  decided. 

When  that  decision  was  made  it  was  final,  and 
when  she  couldn't  decide,  it  meant  that  she  had  not 
yet  been  able  to  concentrate. 

Many  people  bring  out  a  subject  for  review,  turn- 
ing it  around  carefully  between  thumb  and  forefin- 
ger, then  lock  it  up  again  in  the  mental  wardrobe, 
only  to  be  brought  forth  once  more  and  viewed 
in  a  different  light.  Such  a  way  would  have  made 
Leslie  a  jibbering  imbecile.  She  frequently  said  to 
Margaret  Crowley:  "Dont'  think  long,  think 
hard!" 

Don,  therefore,  was  laid  aside,  and  there  was  no 


6o 


THE  WINNING  "    ...^ 


W: 


m 


danger  that  he  would  intrude  himself  upon  her 
further  consideration. 

Albert  Matheso'i's  letter  needed  a  certain  amount 
of  thought,  not  strenuous  or  decisive,  but,  rather, 
lingering,  passive,  vague,  almost  uncertain,  there 
being  no  necessity  to  drive  her  mind  along  any 
given  channel,  or  arrive  at  a  conclusion.  It  was 
a  tender,  mental  aniljle.  There  was  much  the  same 
sensation  as  that  upon  waking  an  hour  earlier  than 
the  usual  time  for  rising,  and  having  the  intense 
satisfaction  of  knowing  there  was  nothing  to  do 
but  lie  there  and  revel  in  the  knowledge  that  it 
was  not  time  to  get  up. 

How  delicately  he  had  put  the  matter  of  the 
money.  Of  c(uirse  he  could  have  left  it  to  some 
one  else,  but  because  of  a  presentiment  that  she 
might  need  it,  he  had  left  it  to  her.  What,  by  the 
way,  did  those  words  mean?  Albert  Matheson 
was  not  a  man  of  idle  fancies — he  must  have  had 
something  in  his  mind.  But  what?  There  is 
something  weirdly  prophetic  about  the  words  of 
one  who  has  departed — trite  banalities  seem  to 
take  on  gigantic  significances;  like  the  words  of  the 
soothsayers,  we  fit  them  to  the  occasion  at  hand, 
and  awesomely  whisper:     "It  is  as  he  said!" 

He  had  loved  her!  Humanly  enough,  Leslie,  los- 
ing for  the  instant  that  keenness  of  which  she  liked 
to  boast,  crowned  her  guardian  with  a  halo  of  de- 
votion and  sentiment  she  would  have  considered 
mawkish  a  few  weeks  ago.  No  one  coul('  ever 
take  his  place. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


6i 


On  the  table  lay  some  slips  of  paper,  relics  of  the 
evening  previous,  when  she  and  Tressidar  had  been 
making  ghosts.  This  peculiar  form  of  amusement 
had  entertained  the  Englishman  immensely,  and 
the  absolute  childish  abandon  with  which  his  host- 
ess threw  herself  into  the  spirit  of  it,  charmed  him 
more  than  he  realized  at  the  time. 

Leslie  wrote  her  name  with  a  heavy  pen,  like 
this: 

then  folded  the  paper  directly  underneath,  blotting 
it;  the  result  was  supposed  to  look  like  she  would, 
after  shedding  her  present  material  form. 


Tressidar  made  a  particularly  ethereal  ghost,  his 
writing  being  small,  round,  and  concise. 


"One  would  never  imagine  from  your  present 
form,"  he  said,  looking  across  the  table,  "how 


62 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


I 


buxom  a  ghost  you  are  to  become.  Really,  those 
proportions  are  quite  earthly.  Unless  I  keep  this 
likeness  continually  before  me,  I  doubt  that  I  shall 
recognize  you." 

"Well,  this" — pointing  to  a  particularly  black- 
ened mark — "this,  Mr.  Tressidar,  is  the  prescribed 
>» 

"Red  carnation,"  interrupted  Algy  triumphantly. 

"Exactly!" 

"I  suppose  that  being  entirely  original,  there  will 
be  no  danger  of  duplicates?"  he  asked,  apparently 
a  prey  to  searching  doubt. 

In  exaggerated  seriousness,  Leslie  puckered  her 
brow  and  shook  her  head  vaguely. 

"I  can't  vouch  for  it,"  she  murmured,  "the  world 
is  full  of  imitators." 

"Then  I  must  keep  this  constantly  before  me," 
Tressidar  said  positively.  "In  other  words,  we 
will  exchange  photographs — I  beg  you  to  autograph 
this." 

After  a  moment's  writing  Leslie  said: 

"Well,  it  pleases  me  to  note  that  our  positions 
will  be  reversed,  for  no  matter  how  complex  and 
opaque  you  may  be  now,  at  thus  stage  of  the  game," 
laying  her  finger  on  the  slip  bearing  Algy's  sig- 
nature, "I  shall  be  able  to  see  through  you,  with 
the  greatest  ease.  Really,  I  never  saw  anything  so 
filmy  and  transparent." 

"The  men  of  our  family  have  always  been  lean," 
sighed  Tressidar  apologetically. 

Leslie  laughed  outright,  as  she  remembered  all 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


63 


the  nonsense  they  had  talked,  the  happy,  bubbling, 
irrepressible  nonsense  of  total  absence  of  con- 
straint ;  in  other  words,  their  congeniality  delighted 
her.  She  remembered,  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure, 
how  easily  Tressidar  had  dropped  into  seriousness 
the  instant  Mr.  Matheson  was  mentioned,  and  how 
sympathetically  he  seemed  to  listen  to  her  talk  of 
him — the  evening  was  far  too  short,  and  the  instant 
he  was  gone  Leslie  thought  of  a  dozen  pisitively 
brilliant  things  she  might  have  said. 

The  'phone  rang,  and  Vera's  voice,  tense  and  ex- 
cited, asked: 

"What  do  you  think  has  happened?" 

"Calamitous  or  otherwise?" 

"Oh,  otherwise,"  was  the  quick  reply,  followed 
by  a  delicious  giggle. 

"Walter's  engagement  is  broken,"  suggested 
Leslie. 

"No — ^you'll  never  guess" — a  forceful  pause,  then 
— "Margaret  has  a  suitor!" 

Presently  Vera  shrieked :  "Are  you  there,  Les  ? 
Speak  promptly,  or  I  shall  accuse  myself  of  murder 
in  the  telephonic  degree." 

"Here,  but  fainting,"  Leslie  whispered.  "Is  it 
in  human  form?" 

"Ay,  verily,  in  the  form  of  a  socialist,  green 
clothes,  spectacles,  rubber-bandaged  umbrella,  and 
all.  He  is  coming  to-night.  And,  see  here,  who 
else  do  you  think  I've  got  ?" 

"Break  it  gently,  whoever  it  is—'* 

"Tom  Edge!" 


64 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


1) 


,!  I, 


'.If 


1 

\  ■ 


"Oh,  splendid!  Vera,  your  party  is  a  heaven- 
born  idea — there  is  only  one  flaw,"  she  added. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  interrupted  the  other  quickly, 
"but  remember  what  he  said,  what  he  wished.  Don 
told  me  last  night.    Are  you  coming  with  Don  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  good-by !    I  have  dozens  of  things  to  do." 

"Can't  I  help?" 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you,  my  dear.  My  hair,  and  my 
nails,  and  really  important  things  like  that,  you 
know.     Good-by !" 

Vera's  house  was  ideal  for  entertaining,  and  she 
took  especial  pride  in  having  it  look  its  best  the 
night  of  her  triumphant  reentry  into  the  New  York 
social  life,  after  three  years  of  mourning. 

Sitting  with  Tressidar  against  a  background  of 
beautiful  violet  blossoms  in  the  far  end  of  the  con- 
servatory, Leslie  wondered  whether  by  any  Satanic 
intuition  he  guessed  that  she  had  led  him  there  by 
dark  design. 

Guiltily,  she  lowered  her  eyes,  as  he  said  very 
gently : 

"I  wonder  whether  ycu  know  how  beautiful  you 
look  against  those  flowers!  You  must  know  that 
you  look  very,  very  lovely  to-night — ^your  maid  and 
your  mirror  have  told  you." 

By  the  time  Tressidar  had  completed  his  first 
sentence  the  girl  was  perfect  mistress  of  herself, 
and,  looking  at  him  with  sparkling  eyes,  she  an- 
swered : 

"If  you  think  for  a  moment  I  am  going  to  say. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


65 


'Oh,  don't  be  silly,'  or  even  murmur  a  modest 
'thank  you,'  you're  wrong.  That  is  just  the  kind 
of  talk  I  can  stand  for  hours;  in  fact,  there  is  no 
limit  to  my  endurance,  so  pray  speak  on,  stranger, 
your  story  interests  me!" 

After  a  moment  Tressidar  said: 

"I  seem  fated  to  deal  in  personalities  to-night, 
but,  really,  you  have  the  most  infectious  laugh  I 
ever  heard.  I  am  not  laughing  at  what  you  said, 
I  am  laughing  because  you  laugh." 

"Better  and  better,"  sighed  Leslie,  closing  her 
eyes  in  languid  enjoyment.  "Really  you  are  a  very 
superior  person,  Mr.  Tressidar." 

"We  seem  to  agree  admirably  upon  every  point. 
Miss  Loring.  By  the  way,  do  you  believe  in  the 
transmigration  of  souls?" 

Leslie  sat  suddenly  erect  upon  the  rustic  divan. 
Albert  Matheson's  image  came  vividly  into  her 
mind. 

"Are  you  serious?"  she  as!:ed  slowly. 

And  he,  surprised  at  the  rapid  change  in  her, 
laughingly  answered: 

"Of  course  not!  I  was  only  wondering  where 
I  had  known  you  before.  You  seem  to  link  me 
with  a  long- forgotten  past;  in  that  I  am  serious." 

"Cross  my  palm  with  silver,"  began  the  girl  flip- 
pantly, "and  you  shall  know  all  I  know."  Then, 
looking  at  him  a  little  strangely,  he  thought,  she 
went  on :  "Once  there  was  a  horrid  English  child 
named  Algy  (his  brother  called  it  'Elgy'),  who 
came  to  New  York  for  his  health,  perhaps,  or  for 


66 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


I 


M 


d 


his  parents'  health — they  may  have  needed  a  rest 
He  was  a  little  bully,  and  not  nice  at  all  to  the  other 
children  in  the  hotel,  but  he  seemed  to  choose  a 
small  g^rl  in  preference  to  the  others  to  act  as  a 
foil  to  his  questionable  deeds  of  valor." 

She  leaned  back,  and,  raising  both  white  arms, 
clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head,  the  tips  of  her 
elbows  being  very  close  to  Tressidar's  cheek.  His 
inscrutable,  yellow  eyes  narrowed  imperceptibly 
while  he  watched  the  girl,  and  he  bent  forward 
slightly  to  catch  her  words. 

"Now,  the  girl  did  not  like  the  boy — of  course 
boy  and  girl  are  spelled  with  capital  letters — they 
always  are  in  books,  you  know — she  did  not  like 
the  peremptory  way  he  ordered  her  to  do  things, 
she  did  not  like  being  a  massacred  person  any  more 
than  he  did,  and  one  day  when  he  took  hold  of  her 
hair,  and  held  her,  she  thought  he  was  going  to 
scalp  her  again  against  her  will.     She  raised  an 

angry  face  to  his,  only  to  receive "  there  was  a 

very  long  pause,  and  Algy  moved  a  shade  nearer. 
The  veil  of  years  rolled  away  as  though  by  magic, 
and  he  could  feel  a  mass  of  tangled  hair  on  his 
arm  and  in  his  hands,  now;  he  could  feel  the  hot, 
sharp  breath  upon  his  face — God,  he  could  still 
thrill  with  the  exultation  of  that  remembrance, 
glorying  in  his  power  to  hold,  by  brute  force,  this 
thing  he  wanted  in  his  grasp. 

"Yes,"  he  whispered  very  slowly. 

"A  wet  and  sloppy  kiss!" 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


67 


Tressidar  forced  a  laugh,  and  wondered  just  how 
unconscious  Leslie  was  of  her  power. 

"You  have  an  excellent  memory,"  he  said,  feel- 
ing obliged  to  make  a  reply.  "I  could  do  much 
better  now,"  he  added,  only  half  conscious  of  his 
words. 

It  was  what  she  might  have  expected,  indeed,  it 
was  an  obvious  remark,  and  yet  Leslie  was  dis- 
concerted. She  used  all  her  self-control  to  hide 
this  fact,  and  was  secretly  pleased  to  know  that 
neither  by  word  nor  look  did  she  betray  the  least 
astonishment  or  discomfort.  However,  this  from 
Tressidar  was  so  disconcerting;  he  had  such  a  way 
of  saying  things  as  though  there  was  no  possi- 
ble doubt  as  to  their  accomplishment.  Leslie  re- 
plied to  his  first  sentence : 

"Oh,  I  don't  deserve  much  credit  for  such  a  feat 
of  memory.  The  night  you  dined  at  the  Crowley's 
your  name  sounded  vaguely  familiar,  and  when  I 
happened  to  mention  it  to  Ceciley  she  enlightened 
me.  She  was  with  my  mother  then,  you  know. 
Perhaps  you  have  forgotten  how  I  slapped  you?" 

"It  was  worth  it,"  was  the  quick  reply,  not  as 
lightly  spoken  as  Tressidar  may  have  wished. 


68 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


i 


it ;    ! 
;':    i 


i  i 

i 

I  \ 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"I  have  been  looking  everywhere  for  you,  Les- 
lie, supper  is  mine,"  announced  CHflFord  Scott,  ap- 
pearing at  this  very  opportune  moment. 

"Don't  be  peevish.  Chfford,  or  your  oysters  won't 
agree  with  you,"  answered  the  girl  soothingly. 
"Who  is  your  fate?"  she  asked,  turning  to  Tres- 
sidar. 

"Mrs.  Stearns  said  she  had  arranged  eight  of  us 
at  one  table,  I  think,  and  I  was  to  be  personally 
responsible  for  her  guest.  Miss  Brabazon." 

"Splendid,"  cried  Leslie  enthusiastically.  "You 
will  surely  love  Angelique,  won't  he,  Cliflford  ?  She 
is  one  of  the  most  fascinating  girls  I  know.  Didn't 
you  like  her  when  you  met  her?" 

"I  thought  her  quite  amusing,"  was  Tressidar's 
unenthusiastic  reply. 

"Oh,  you  make  me  rage,  with  all  your  English 
conservatism !"  stormed  the  girl.  "You  are  either 
a  fish,  or  else  you  put  such  a  curb  on  a  really  good 
impulse  that  some  day  when  you  want  one  you  will 
find  it  cruelly  strangled." 

Both  men  laughed  at  her  vehemence,  and  the 
JEnglishman  asked  teasingly: 

"Is  enthusiasm  a  good  impulse?" 


t-    i 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


^ 


"Sometimes,"  Leslie  answered  quickly.  "But  I 
particularly  meant  the  capacity  for  admiration." 

They  were  unable  to  discuss  the  matter  further 
for  a  great  clamor  was  raised  by  the  rest  of  the 
party  waiting  for  supper. 

Choruses  of  "Where  have  you  been?"  and  "We 
have  been  starving  for  hours,"  were  heard  from  all 
sides. 

As  Leslie  seated  herself,  she  turned  haughtily  to 
the  group. 

"We  have  been  discussing  a  previous  existence,'* 
she  said. 

"Ciel,"  ejaculated  the  little  French  girl,  "he  ess 
her  one — how  do  you  say,  Mr.  Tressidar — hobof 

"Oh,  Angelique,"  chided  Mrs.  Steams,  "you  must 
not  call  the  gentleman  names.  That  is  shocking 
bad  form." 

"What  haf  I  said?"  Angelique  questioned,  in 
embarrassed  alarm.  "Ah,  monsieur,"  she  continued 
pitifully,  "dis  horrible  English  of  yours  it  is  mek 
me  so  angry!  Me,  I  go  to  New  York  to  Madame 
to  learn  English,  and,  voila,  when  I  get  dere  I  fin*^ 
Madame,  she  make  every  one  to  spik  French.  And 
de  girls — even  Leslie — she  don't  help  me  not  a  lit- 
tle, she  say,  'Angelique,  it  is  beautiful  to  hear  you 
spik  lak  dat,  but  me,  I  must  to  learn  French,'  and 
lak  every  one  else  who  do  what  she  say,  me,  I  al- 
ways spik  French  to  Leslie,  till  Monsieur,  she  is 
spik  lak  one  native." 
•     Tressidar  turned  to  the  g^rl  beside  him. 


70 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


til' 


H.i    '         I 

,H  i 


"There  is  really  nothing  you  can't  do,  is  there?" 
he  asked,  in  a  low  tone. 

But  Miss  Loring,  after  a  peculiar  glance  at  him, 
turned  to  young  Scott  without  answering,  and  Algy 
felt  rebuffed,  for  in  his  way  he  had  meant  to  com- 
pliment her. 

"I  remember  the  day  Leslie  came  to  school,  don't 
you,  Margaret?  We  all  congregated  in  Elsie  Da- 
vies'  room  to  talk  her  over  and  vote  as  to  whether 
she  was  eligible  to  the  Upper  Ten." 

"I  remember  that  I  liked  her  at  once.  Vera," 
answered  Margaret  Crowley,  in  her  precise  way, 
"but  you  and  Elsie  were  inclined  to  consider  her  too 
forward." 

She  turned  to  the  man  beside  her,  Herbert  Car- 
ter, the  socialist. 

"We  were  schoolmates,  Mr.  Carter,"  she  ex- 
plained, "and  I  fear  that  at  these  little  reunions 
every  one  else  suffers." 

"Reminiscences  are  always  interesting,"  mur- 
mured the  man  perfunctorily. 

"I  gather  that  Miss  Loring  was  admitted  to  the 
Upper  Ten,"  suggested  Tressidar. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Angelique  continued,  while  Vera  and 
Burnley  leaned  forward  to  hear  her.  "So  ver'  many 
zings  happened  that  day  to  mek  her  like.  At  study 
hour  she  do  Vera's  h-algebra,  she  fin'  h-answers  to 
Milly  Cross'  histoire,  ah" — she  spread  out  her 
hands — "she  tell  us  after,  she  say  to  herself,  she 
mek  us  to  love  her." 

Tressidar  laughed,  and  was  a  little  surprised  that 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


71 


the  others  did  not  join  him.  He  saw,  with  amuse- 
ment, that  they  took  Angelique's  words  quite  seri- 
ously. 

Vera,  after  glancing  in  her  gfuest's  direction  and 
finding  her  engrossed  in  something  Clifford  Scott 
was  saying,  leaned  a  little  farther  across  the  table, 
and  fixed  her  large,  dark  eyes  on  Algy. 

"You  are  amuse('  by  our  seriousness,  aren't  you  ?" 
she  asked,  just  a  little  resentfully.  Then,  without 
waiting  for  an  answer:  "It  is  true,  what  Angle 
says — ^Lesl'f  made  up  her  mind  that  we  should  like 
her— that  sufficed.  To  begin  with,  she  has  mag- 
netism," she  paused,  and  Tressidar,  still  amused, 
nodded,  "added  to  that,  she  is  a  natural-born  ac- 
tress; again,  she  realized  even  at  that  age  tlie  way  to 
win  people.  I  mean  by  that  she  was  adaptable— 
when  with  Margaret  Crowley  she  was  quite  a  dif- 
ferent sort  of  girl  than  the  one  she  was  with  me, 
for  instance,  and  it  was  not  affected,  she  feels  gen- 
uine sympathy  toward  her  companion  of  the  mo- 
ment. She  is  the  unusual  sort  of  person  who  mag- 
netizes women  as  well  as  men." 

"I   tremble,"  murmured  the  Englishman  trag- 
ically. 

"Oh,  you  are  joke,"  sighed  Angle  Brabazon. 
"Just  wait  till  you  know  her  better!" 

"I  tremble  more,"  laughed  the  man  outright. 

"Know  whom?"  asked  Leslie,  turning  suddenly 
toward  them. 

"We  were  speaking  of  the  old  schooldays,"  Vera 


7a 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


( " 
k 


■!? 

i  • 

\\ 

1 

! 

ii* 

;            i 

;•*     = 

%■ 

m  * 

i  I 

interrupted.  "Do  you  remember  the  elevator  boy 
who  fell  in  love  with  you?" 

"Oh,  Vera,"  protested  Leslie,  getting  painfully 
red  under  her  clear  skin. 

"Who?"  asked  Tressidar. 

"The  elevator  boy,"  repeated  Mrs.  Stearns. 
"First  of  all,  he  confided  his  attachment  to  one  of 
the  maids — swearing  her  to  secrecy  as  to  his  iden- 
tity. Then  with  that  powerful  and  ubiquitous  ally 
as  messenger,  he  bestowed  his  entire  salary  (in- 
cluding tips)  upon  the  innocent  object  of  his  af- 
fections, in  various  ways — flowers,  candy,  books, 
lovely  gold-embossed  things — Ella  Wilcox's  Poems 
of  Passion,  Oscar  Wilde,  a  magnificent  copy  of 
Byron " 

"Vera,"  Leslie's  voice  held  something  of  a  com- 
mand, "stop  at  once,  I  insist!  Don't  believe  it, 
Mr.  Tressidar,"  she  turned  to  him,  quite  overlook- 
ing Herbert  Carter,  who  had  ceased  spcakitig  to 
Margaret  and  was  listening  to  Mrs.  Stearns. 

But  Vera,  spurred  by  the  obvious  interest  and 
whole-souled  attention  of  her  audience,  wrinkled 
her  eyes  to  mere  dots  of  dancing  mischief,  and  pro- 
ceeded : 

"Leslie,  thinking  it  was  the  assistant  clergyman 
of  Grace  Church,  who  had  hinted  at  a  hopeless  at- 
tachment for  her,  upon  one  of  our  'at  homes,' 
continued  to  ride  up  and  down  in  the  proximity  of 
the  adoring  Henry,  blissfully  unconscious  of  the 
burning  flame  in  his  breast.  At  last" — she  gloated 
over  the  climax — "one  dark  and  stormy  night,  when 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


73 


Leslie  was  alone  in  the  elevator,  having  been  sent 
for  to  see  a  visitor,  Henry  seized  the  opportunity 
of  casting  discretion  to  the  winds  and  made  a  pas- 
sionate avowal,  in  his  descent.  The  sad  story  came 
to  light — through  no  word  of  the  siren's,"  point- 
ing a  dramatic  finger  at  Miss  Loring,  who  sat  in 
dignified  silence  waiting  for  the  end  of  these  very 
annoying  disclosures — "no,  she  never  even  hinted 
of  the  occurrence  to  us — her  sworn,  tried,  and  true 
friends.  It  was  through  Henry  himself,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  inebriation,  that  the  painful  truth  came 
to  be  known." 

Margaret  Crowley,  sympathizing  somewhat  with 
Leslie's  discomfiture,  added  her  plea  that  Vera 
should  speak  of  something  else— only  to  be  silenced 
by  an  imperious  wave  of  the  hand,  and  an  audible 
aside  to  Mr.  Carter. 

"She  is  only  jealous  because  it  did  not  happen 
to  her.  Believe  me,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  her  char- 
acter is  irreproachable!  To  continue,  Henry  made 
a  fatal  error — he  got  drunk,  shuftied  to  Leslie's  door 
himself  with  another  love  offering — I  have  forgot- 
ten whether  in  the  morn  I  bring  thee  roses  or  vio- 
lets— and  Madame,  who  happened  to  be  conversing 
with  her  dearly  beloved  at  that  inopportune  mo- 
ment, ferreted  out  the  lamentable  affair." 

"Oh.  but  you  have  not  told,"  interposed  An- 
gelique,  "how  when  Leslie  saw  him  drunk  she  say 
to  Madame,  do  not  blame  him,  poor  zing,  and  she 
faint." 

"I  was  coming  to  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Stearns, 


.    1 


r  i 

! 


iMi 


74 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


with  crushing  hauteur.  "So  annoying  to  have  the 
cHmax  of  a  good  story  spoiled,"  she  continued,  in 
a  tone  of  mock  despair  to  an  imaginary  person  be- 
hind her. 

"Why  did  she  faint?"  asked  Tressidar  of  An- 
gehque,  so  interested  that  he  forgot  Leslie  herself 
could  have  answered  with  far  greater  satisfaction. 
"Ah,  she  is  so— so — sick,  so  sorry  to  see  any  one 
drunk."  The  girl  frowned  impatiently  at  her  in- 
ability to  speak  her  thoughts  with  clearness,  "she  is 
mek  sick  to  see  any  one  who  is  lak  dat,"  she  re- 
peated. 

"As  long  as  the  outstanding  feature  of  this  whole 
supper  seems  to  have  been  the  repetition  of  my 
name,"  Leslie  herself  interposed,  "Mr.  Tressidar,  I 
will  say  that  by  some  peculiar  inheritance,  perhaps, 
instead  of  knowing  fear,  a  distaste  for  any  par- 
ticular animal,  or  such— I  have  always  been  made 
violently  ill  at  the  sight  of  any  one  under  the  in- 
fluence of  liquor.    Of  course.  Vera  has  exaggerated 
all  this  affair"— with  a  deprecating  wave  of  the 
hand  as  tho ;.gh  to  free  his  mind  from  all  remem- 
brance of  it— "but  the  fact  is  that  I  was  dreadfully 
upset  by  what  Henry  said  to  me  in  the  elevator, 
and  when  I  saw  him  standing  in  my  doorway,  with 
Madame's  cold,  critical  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  and 
saw  him  oblivious  to  her  presence,  stagger  foolishly 
forward  toward  me,  I  succumbed  to  the  old  hor- 
ror and  fainted.    Has  every  one  finished — the  room 
is  so  close?" 

George  Burnley  rose,  and,  going  to  Leslie's  side. 


i 

■  i:  1 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


75 


whispercv.  "Come  with  me,  we  will  go  into  the 
conservat  j  ^ ." 

But  Algy  Tressidar,  who  had  overheard,  b^ged 
for  the  privilege  of  going  with  her  if  I«Ille.  Braba- 
zon  would  excuse  him.  To  the  anxious  clamorings 
of  the  rest  of  the  party,  Leslie  smiled  quietly,  and 
assured  them  that  she  was  not  ill,  a  few  moments  in 
cooler  atmosphere  would  make  a  great  difference. 
Her  face  had  lost  something  of  it's  gayety,  and 
was  very  white.  At  the  moment  she  appealed  to 
Algy  strongly,  and  it  was  with  real  solicitude  that 
he  led  her  through  the  door  of  the  conservatory  to 
the  place  they  had  been. 

The  guests  had  all  left  before  Cliflford  Scott 
came  to  take  Leslie  in  to  supper — that  is,  all  of 
them  save  the  few  intimate  friends  Vera  had  asked 
to  stay  later,  and  a  strange  quiet  pervaded  the  house 
so  noisy  but  an  hour  before. 

"I  am  afraid  you  blame  me  somewhat  for  this 
•—do  you?"  he  anxiously  asked,  looking  into  her 
eyes. 

"Oh,  no."  Leslie  tried  to  speak  lightly.  She 
had  a  great  contempt  for  any  sort  of  physical  weak- 
ness, and  claimed  still  that  in  the  long  run  her  will 
would  conquer  this  one.  The  very  remembrance 
of  that  night,  so  tragic  in  the  foolishness,  caused 
her  such  acute  dizziness  and  nausea  that  it  re- 
quired an  immense  amount  of  the  will,  she  loved  to 
feel,  to  keep  herself  from  fainting. 

"But  you  are  ill,"  Tressidar  went  on,  revelling 
in  the  dependence  which  made  her  lean  a  little  upon 


T^ 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


.J 


ii--: 


't 


«  \ 


M      1 


him.  "Tell  me  what  to  get  for  you  ?  Really,  I'm 
awfully  sorry." 

Leslie's  lips  parted  in  a  smiie.  The  words  were 
so  conventional — the  tone  so  i.early  resembling  the 
one  he  used  to  say  the  same  words  at  Margaret 
Crowley's  home.    Could  nothing  rouse  him? 

At  that  instant  two  forms  appeared  in  the  door- 
way. One  was  that  of  Morton,  Vera  Steam's  most 
excellent  man,  the  other  was  Walter  Bryce. 

He  was  trying  to  shake  off  the  butler's  detain- 
ing hand  and  puslied  roughly  past  him  into  the 
conservatory.  Catching  sight  of  Tressidar  he  came 
as  quickly  forward  as  his  uncertain  steps  and  vi- 
sion would  permit. 

"Ver'  man — want  to  see,"  he  mumbled  thickly, 
"want  you  t'  come,  spend  night  with  me.  Got 
rooms — downtown — where  were  b'fore — lots  booze 
Ah,"  his  manner  changed  to  a  would-be  gal- 
lant carelessness — "see  you  with  a  lady — sorry  to 
disturb  you.  Lesh-lie,  by  God!  My,  but  you're 
shtunning — always  thought " 

"Stop!"  cried  Algy,  springing  forward,  and  as 
he  did  so  the  crowd  of  people  from  supper  came 
gayly  into  the  room.  Don  Crowley  overlooked 
Bryce  at  first,  his  eyes  sought  only  Leslie,  standing 
white  and  silent  under  a  great  palm.  But  Burnley 
took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance  and  grasped  Wal- 
ter's arm  lightly. 

"Come  and  have  a  drink,  old  man,"  he  whis- 
pered.   "Hurry!" 

"Not  without  m'  old  college  chum,  Tresshidar," 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


77 


he  stuttered  obstinately.  "Want  him,  too!  See, 
he's  going  in  for  th'  heiressh,"  he  whispered  in  a 
perfectly  audible  hiss,  "hate  t'  'sturb  him!" 

"Don,"  cried  Leslie,  taking  a  tottering  step  for- 
ward, "Don,  oh,  please  take  him  away!" 

Crowley  sprang  forward,  but  not  in  time  to  pre- 
vent Leslie  from  falling,  a  «oft,  sweet  burden  into 
Algy's  outstretched  arms. 


78 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


:^1. 

z  '> 


CHAPTER  X. 

Algernon  Tressidar  awoke  earlier  the  next  morn- 
ing than  usual,  which  circumstance  needs  comment 
owing  to  the  fact  that  he  had  lain  awake  hours 
after  getting  to  bed. 

"I  wish  I  could  keep  from  being  forever  tangled 
with  some  woman,"  he  thought  irritably.    "If  I  stay 

here Egad !  I  see  the  consequences,  now,  and 

if  I  go— well,  I  don't  want  to  go  just  yet.     There  is 
the  governor  to  placate." 

For  a  few  moments  his  mind  wandered  back  to 
his  home,  to  his  parents,  to  his  last  interview  with 
Sir  Anthony.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  reminiscence 
for  the  forenoon,  so  he  allowed  the  picture  of  Les- 
lie to  blot  out  such  disagreeable  memories. 

Tressidar  went  over,  bit  by  bit,  his  association 
with  her,  not  omitting  their  very  first  meeting,  so 
many  years  ago.  He  tried  to  analyze  her  childish 
attraction  for  him  then,  but  finally  gave  it  up.  He 
asked  himself  if  she  really  attracted  him  now,  and 
couldn't  answer.  Certainly  she  amused  him — she 
was  good  to  look  at,  she  was  pleasing  to  talk  with, 
she  satisfied  his  fastidious  taste  in  little  things. 

"I  see  you  are  going  in  for  the  heiress,"  Bryce 
had  said.  "Damned  beast!"  Algy  thought  angrily, 
"why  can't  a  man  drink  like  a  gentleman?" 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


79 


Certainly  he  was  not  "going  in  for  her."  Must 
he  have  matrimonial  designs  upon  every  woman 
to  whom  he  paid  attention?  Ah,  in  India  it  was 
different.  There  was  Claire  Fairborough,  a  woman 
past  thirty,  fully  conscious  of  her  powers,  and  her 
fascination  for  him,  and  she  had  not  expected  him 
to  marry  her. 

Still,  he  had  not  needed Ah,  well,  that  was 

past;  but  this  idea,  the  maudlin  figment  of  a  be- 
fuddled brain,  recurred  so  persistently  that  at  last, 
quite  annoyed,  the  Englishman  got  out  of  bed, 
looked  at  his  watch,  and,  finding  it  was  only  half- 
past  ten,  allowed  himself  the  luxury  of  swearing 
steadily  for  five  minutes  in  Hindustani. 

Then,  being  somewhat  relieved,  he  'phoned  to  the 
cafe  for  breakfast,  taking  the  precaution  to  start 
the  day  with  an  eye  opener,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  sat 
down,  once  more,  to  think. 

Altogether,  he  was  not  having  a  poor  time  of  it 
in  New  York.  The  men  were  very  nice,  the  club 
an  excellent  one,  and  the  women — bother  the 
women,  anyway! 

And  yet,  because  he  was  not  self-analytical,  Algy 
Tressidar  would  have  been  surprised  to  know  how 
dependent  he  was  upon  women.  Leslie  had  cer- 
tainly been  fascinating  the  night  before.  Her  fair 
hair  parted  on  her  forehead,  and  held  back  by  a 
heavy  jet  band,  glowed  li'.;e  an  aureole.  Her  eyes 
— blue,  violet,  gray,  hazel,  what  were  they? — 
changed  so  rapidly  they  were  bewildering.  Be- 
wildering, he  repeated  liie  word,  that  described  her 


So 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


•<:; 


til 


1 


I-*  i.t  i 


m 


exactly.  He  never  knew  what  he  should  find,  he 
never  knew  precisely  whether  she  was  serious  or 
joking;  he  loved  to  see  her  blue  eyes  dance;  he 
loved  to  see  her  gray  eyes,  large,  humid,  shadowy, 
as  they  were  on  the  afternoon  Matheson  died.  Per- 
haps that  explained  her  charm,  it  was  her  vari- 
ableness. 

"Going  in  for  the  heiress" — the  heiress — well, 
after  all,  why  not  ?  The  pater  was  assuredly  hold- 
ing out  very  creditably  against  his  advances  toward 
reconciliation,  and  although  a  mercenary  marriage 
in  its  literal  sense  did  not  appeal  to  Tressidar,  he 
had  always  claimed  that  it  would  be  a  lucky  day 
for  him  when  he  married  a  fortune.  What  a  soft- 
hearted little  soul  she  was,  too!  Aching  with  pity 
for  a  lout  of  a  menial  who  had  dared  fall  in  love 
with  her,  and  what  a  queer  thing  this  fainting  at 
the  sight  of  an  intoxicated  person.  'T  suppose  I 
should  have  to  become  quite  respectable,"  he  mused 
whimsically  over  his  rolls  and  coffee.  Then  a  sud- 
den revulsion  of  feeling  swept  over  him,  and  he 
laughed  aloud. 

"What  a  bally  ass  I  am,"  he  scoffed.  "I  don't 
even  pretend  to  care  about  her." 

Notwithstanding  this  conclusion,  Tressidar  tele- 
phoned an  order  for  a  dozen  American  beauties  to 
be  sent  to  Miss  Loring.  About  noon,  his  mind  still 
travelling  along  that  channel,  he  'phoned  Leslie  her- 
self, to  ask  how  she  was.  Ceciley  answered  the 
call.  No,  Miss  Loring  was  not  at  home,  she  had  a 
club  meeting  in  the  morning  and  had  not  returned ; 


ii 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


8l 


she  tnig^ht  be  at  Miss  Crowley's.  Was  there  any 
message?  Tressidar  left  his  number,  then  half  re- 
gretted it.  He  was  not  sure  he  wanted  to  see  Les- 
lie, after  all.  And,  having  begun  to  weig^  the 
matter  for  and  against,  without  coming  to  a  deci- 
sion, he  waited  for  a  call  all  the  afternoon,  at  first 
with  something  like  relief,  and  then  surprise,  and 
toward  dinner  time  he  was  keenly  irritated.  Either 
Miss  Loring  had  poorly  trained  servants,  or  else 
was  careless  about  her  obligations.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  Algy  to  do  as  Don  Crowley  or  Clifford 
Scott,  or  any  of  Leslie's  other  friends  would  have 
done,  ring  up  the  apartment  again. 

That  evening  he  spent  at  the  Crowley's,  and 
while  thoroughly  enjoying  the  quiet  dignity  of 
their  home,  he  was  unconscionably  bored  by  Mar- 
garet's ponderousness — her  distressing  conventional- 
ity, through  which  he  clearly  saw  a  ludicrous  at- 
tempt to  interest  him.  As  he  expected,  they  talked 
a  great  deal  of  Leslie,  who  seemed  to  be  a  most 
pervading  person,  and  Tressidar  carried  home  a 
fund  of  quaint  anecdotes  about  the  girl,  who  so 
persistently  claimed  a  share  of  his  thoughts. 

In  the  first  mail  on  the  following  morning  was 
a  little  note  from  her,  thanking  the  Englishman  for 
his  flowers,  half-humorously  apologizing  for  her 
childish  lick  of  control  the  night  previous,  and  ask- 
ing him  CO  have  tea  with  her  the  same  afternoon. 

"I  will  have  Angelique,  Vera,  and  some  others 
whom  you  may  be  interested  to  know,"  she  wrote, 
"that  is,  if  we  provincial  Gothamites  can  interest 


82 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


Hi 


!  I     I 


i 


i 
n 


you  at  all.  You  really  prefer  life  among  the  In- 
dians, don't  you,  with  massacres  as  a  daily  diver- 
sion?" 

"It  will  be  rather  a  nuisance,"  thought  Algy.  "I 
never  liked  crowds,  but  I  might  inveigle  her  ("her" 
meant  Leslie)  to  go  to  the  theatre  afterward.  I 
have  a  sort  of  curiosity  to  see  what  kind  of  gown 
she  will  wear." 

This  was  not  as  foolish  as  it  sounded,  for  it  was 
a  well-known  and  discussed  fact  among  Leslie's 
friends,  that  no  two  styles  of  dresses  became  her 
alike.  Chamclion-likc,  she  seemed  to  take  tone  from 
her  clothes,  and  because  Osmonde  built  them  the 
tone  was  very  ^cxnl.  When  in  a  riding  habit  she 
looked  scMTcly  tailor  made,  formal,  and  aloof-ish. 
In  her  home  she  loukcil  cozy,  and,  as  Vera  said,  as 
though  lier  name  shoulfj  be  Sue.  In  tlie  summer 
time,  down  in  luli^eville,  or  at  Vcra's  country  home, 
Leslie  gave  the  appearance  of  being  simply  a 
healthy,  normal  jjirl.  putting  her  heart  into  the 
game  of  tennis,  whicli  she  played  with  so  much 
vigor.  At  a  dinner,  with  carefully  coifiFed  hair,  and 
a  soft,  clinging,  elusive  gown  of  one  of  the  indefi- 
nite shades  she  loved  to  wear,  Leslie  was  vague, 
subtle,  powerful. 

Without  explaining  this  to  himself,  Algy  recog- 
nized and  liked  it. 

The  tea  was  very  enjoyable,  after  all.  There  was 
a  struggling  young  painter,  de  F"orest,  there  was 
Mildred  Grant,  the  authoress ;  and  a  Count  de  Vin- 
ville;  there  were  Angelique  Brabazon,  Vera,  Tom 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


83 


Edge,  the  Crowleys,  and  about  a  dozen  others.  But 
when  it  was  all  over  and  Tressidar  was  alone  with 
his  hostess,  he  found  himself  content  to  accept  her 
invitation  to  dinner,  and  did  not  bother  going  out 
at  all. 

The  next  three  or  four  weeks  were  marked  by 
daily  jaunts  with  Leslie.  He  found  her  as  attrac- 
tive a  guide  as  any  man.  She  seemed  to  know  by 
instinct  all  the  queer  little  out-of-the-way  places 
to  go  for  tea,  or  supper.  They  sometimes  went 
shopping,  Leslie  delving  in  musty  second-hand 
stores  for  odd  bits  of  jewelry  or  books.  Invariably 
they  admired  the  same  thing,  invariably  their  sug- 
gestions coincided,  and  during  those  days  Tressidar 
half  forgot  Walter  Bryce's  insinuation,  and  gave 
himself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  Leslie's  presence. 
Once  in  a  while  he  would  look  at  her  curiously, 
wondering  whether  her  yielding  manner  held  in  it 
anything  other  than  friendliness.  There  were  mo- 
ments when  he  decided  that  it  did,  and,  somewhat 
petulantly,  he  would  wish  she  were  harder  to  win. 
Then  suddenly  she  would  change  absolutely,  and 
with  ingenious  frankness  make  a  remark  entirely 
altering  his  view. 

Algy  could  not  help  being  lover-like,  his  every 
action  spoke  of  deep,  absorbing  interest  in  the  one 
at  hand.  Leslie  had  noticed  the  same  thing  in 
other  men,  too,  and  rather  liked  it.  But  with  the 
others  there  were  sudden  lapses  into  the  spoken 
word,  and  that  broke  the  charm — words  are  so  su- 
perfluous and  inexperienced ;  subtlety  so  fascinating 


ii' 


m 


I 


84  THE  WINNING  GAME 

and  worldly  wise.  With  Tressidar  he  alwayi 
seemed  just  on  the  point  of  saying  the  word,  of  con- 
firming the  suspicion,  as  it  were,  but  never  really 

did  so.  ,    ,    .  •     « 

To  Leslie  the  dangerous  joy  of  playmg  a  serious 
Rame  was  too  great  to  resist.  Here  she  had  no 
scruples,  because  she  feh  that  if  either  of  them 
were  unequal  to  the  bout,  that  one  was  herself. 
Tressidar  certainly  attracted  her  keenly,  and  she 
found  herself  devoting  a  great  deal  of  thought  to 

His  apparent  total  lack  of  impulse  fascinated  her; 
it  seemed  to  stand   for  gigantic  strength,  latent, 
waiting  a  fitting  opportunity   for  showing  itself. 
There  was  mad  joy  in  breaking  down,  one  by  one, 
little  attitudes  of  restraint  toward  her  personally. 
There  was  alluring  happiness  in  the  thought  that 
she,  herself,  had  to  pave  the  way  toward  the  ces- 
sation of  trivial  conventionalities,  the  breaking  down 
of  which  almost  any  other  man  would  have  taken 
upon  himself.     In  other  words,   she  had  to  en- 
courage him  to  drop  a  certain  amount  of   for- 
mality. .  .      ,.  ,       .    . 

His  apparent  hesitancy  in  making  light  of  phys- 
ical contact  appealed  particularly  to  Leslie's  sen- 
sitiveness. To  her  it  represented  the  epitome  of 
chivalry— of  reverence.  In  helping  her  in  or  out 
of  a  hansom,  for  example,  his  hand  never  lingered 
one  moment  longer  than  seemed  necessary  to  show 
every  consideration  and  attention.  In  saying 
good  night,  after  a  congenial  evening  when  their 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


8S 


very  nearness  would  perhai»  seem  to  warrant  or 
condone  an  exaggerated  expression  of  pleasure  in 
her  society,  Tressidar  shook  hands  as  formally,  as 
aloofly,  as  with  Margaret  Crowley. 

One  afternoon  in  March,  when  walking  home 
from  an  uptown  tea  room,  Leslie  and  Algy  battled 
against  the  fiercest  wind  they  had  ever  encountered. 
The  girl's  face  was  stung,  and  in  some  places  her 
tender  sWin  was  blistered ;  her  hands,  protected  only 
by  thin  kid  gloves,  ached  with  such  cruel  persistence 
that  tears  rolled  down  her  smarting  cheeks.  She 
flatly  refused  to  let  Tressidar  'phone  for  a  cab,  as 
they  were  only  a  few  blocks  from  home. 

Arrived  at  the  apartment,  Ceciley  herself  was  no 
more  tender  and  solicitous  than  Algy.  He  showed 
himself  in  a  different  light  to  both  women.  It  was 
he  who  deftly  unfastened  Leslie's  veil  and  found 
three  hatpins  without  the  usual  masculine  clumsi- 
ness, leaving  her  hair  in  it's  accustomed  waves ;  he 
did  these  things  while  Ceciley  went  for  hot  water 
and  branvly.  And  it  was  Algy  who,  in  the  gentlest 
manner,  removed  Leslie's  gloves,  and  took  the  red, 
stiffened  finjrers  in  his  own.  Then,  with  the  slight- 
est hesitation,  the  least  trace  of  diffidence,  he  bent 
nearer  her  and  said : 

"I  think  the  pain  should  soon  disappear  by  my 
holding  your  hands  in  mine — that  is  if  I  may? 
Quite  gently,  you  see— this  way." 

Leslie  raised  her  deep-blue  eyes  to  his  an  instant, 
and  was  conscious  that  the  blood  rushed  to  her 
cheeks.     She  realized  with  bitter  humiliation  that 


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«6 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


even  in  Tressidar's  tone  there  was  nothing  more 
than  a  desire  to  ease  her  suffering,  there  was  noth- 
ing in  his  clasp  to  indicate  that  he  did  this  for  her 
because  she  was  Leshe,  yet  subtly  his  attitude  im- 
plied that  he  did,  that  if  she  encouraged  him  suffi- 
ciently he  would  .^llow  himself  greater  freedom  of 
speech  and  action.  He  always  made  Leslie  feel  as 
though  she  held  him  in  check. 

Tressidar  closed  his  hold  over  the  girl's  two 
hands  a  trifie,  and  repeated  softly:    "If  I  mayf 

Ceciley  returned  with  the  brandy,  which  she  held 
to  Leslie's  lips.  After  swallowing  a  mouthful  and 
making  a  wry  face,  she  again  raised  her  eyes  to 
the  man  standing  before  her,  and  said,  in  a  per- 
fectly natural  tone : 

"You  certainly  may,  only  it  seems  cruel  to  let 
you  share  my  torture.  You  must  feel  as  though 
you  held  a  lump  the  size  of  the  north  pole.  Wasn't 
I  stupid  to  have  forgotten  my  muff?" 

"Size."  repeated  Algy,  in  that  same  elusive,  ten- 
der voice.  "Size — what  of  size  ?  These  hands  are 
the  very  smallest  I  have  ever  seen.  Size  is  merely 
relative,  comparative.     What  is  size  ?" 

"That  reminds  me,"  answered  Kitty  Loring's 
daughter,  closing  her  eyes  to  shadowy,  dreamy 
pools  of  gray,  "that  reminds  me  of  an  answer  I 
once  gave  at  school,  regarding  size.  I  was  asked 
■why  is  paper  sized?" 

"And?" 

"And  I  cleverly  answered,  with  almost  a  contempt 


iii 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


87 


for  my  teacher  at  the  childishness  of  her  question : 
'Why,  to  fit  the  envelope,  of  course.'  " 

She  broke  into  a  ringing  peal  of  laughter,  and, 
being  truly  feminine,  she  felt,  rather  than  saw,  the 
astonishment  Algy  experienced  at  her  swift  regain 
of  self-control,  the  total  absence  of  shyness,  of  co- 
quetry or  self-consciousness  which  he  might  reason- 
ably have  expected.  She  took  keen  delight  in  re- 
alizing intuitively  that  he  asked  himself,  in  that 
moment:  "Could  I  have  been  mistaken,  after  all? 
But  why  the  blush  ?" 


88 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


I  Hi' 


i 


CHAPTER  XL 

"Vera,  what  a  goose  you  are,"  complained  Les- 
lie, laughing.  "That  fairy  tale  you  told  me  about 
Margaret's  socialist.     Why  will  you  tell  lies?" 

"So  much  more  interesting  than  the  bald  truth  " 
answered  Mrs.  Stearns  laconically.  "Good  heavens 
what  would  prosaic  life  be,  stripped  of  a  little,  mild 
exaggeration,  of  a  few  rosy  lights,  of  a  peck  or 
two  of  lurid  tarrididdles?  Just  what  fib  do  you  re- 
fer to,  MissLoring?" 

"Well,  to  begin  with,  you  said  that  Mr.  Carter 
wore  green  clothes,  or  was  it  goggles?  and  tied  his 
umbrella  m  the  middle  with  an  elastic  band,  so  that 
I  expected  to  see  him  deftly  reverse  the  uses  of  his 
knife  and  fork,  drink  out  of  his  finger  bowl,  or 
pour  his  coflfee  into  his  saucer." 

Vera  laughed.  "Oh,  well,  you  know  what  they 
are  generally  like.     I  just  used  him  as  a  type." 

The  girls  were  sitting  in  Harmonie  Hall,  wait- 
mg  for  Herbert  Carter's  lecture.  Leslie  had  al- 
ways been  more  or  less  interested  in  Socialism  and 
association  with  Margaret  Crowley,  for  whom  she 
had  a  genuine  fondness,  even  though  it  was  not 
a  congenial  affection,  had  grounded  her  in  many 
socialistic  theories.     Mrs.    Stearns,    thirsting    for 


;i 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


89 


fads,  clutched  at  this  with  characteristic  fervor. 
Margaret  used  to  say  sometimes,  making  her  near- 
est approach  at  a  joke,  that  had  LesHe  not  been 
bom  rich,  she  woukl  have  been  a  socialist.  Just 
what  her  meaning  was  nobody  ever  fathomed,  un- 
less she  implied  that  because  of  luxurious  tastes  and 
an  abundance  with  which  to  satisfy  them,  Leslie  had 
never  felt  the  desire  to  concentrate  upon  anything, 
she  hardly  understood  the  enormity  of  the  issues  at 
stake. 

Herbert  Carter  was  a  man  of  forty-five  or  six. 
He  was  a  man  of  the  people,  a  man  who  knew 
every  phase  of  the  struggles  of  men.  He  was  a 
peculiar  combination  of  visionary  and  revolutionist, 
always  looking  far  ahead  into  the  Utopia  of  his 
dreams,  always  seeing  near  at  hand  the  bitterness, 
the  futility  of  the  fight,  until  the  masses  are  more 
capable  of  helping  themselves;  forever  plotting, 
planning,  toward  some  scheme  for  the  world's  bet- 
terment, some  scheme,  alas!  too  gigantic  for  any 
save  men  of  his  own  calibre  to  do  more  than  grasp. 

As  he  stood  now  upon  the  unlovely,  unadorned 
platform,  he  radiated  a  rugged  force,  a  genuineness 
of  purpose  which  appealed  to  every  member  of  the 
audience.  Tall,  spare,  and  slightly  stooped,  with  a 
naturally  high  forehead,  his  lack  of  hair  heightened 
the  effect  so  that  he  seemed  to  have  tiny  lines  run- 
ning back  to  the  middle  of  his  head.  Keen  blue 
eyes  looked  out  from  overhanging  brows,  drawn 
together  by  long  hours  of  concentrated  thought,  a 
large  straight  mouth,  not  very  prepossessing  ex- 


90 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


I 


Si'  i 


hi- 


■  i.  3 


r^h 


i 


cept  in  its  cleanness,  a  chin  square  at  the  base,  with 
the  slightest  suggestion  of  a  cleft  in  it,  Carter  was 
a  man  whom  people  never  forgot. 

"I  am  here  to  speak  to  you  this  afternoon,"  he 
began,  in  a  slow,  even  voice,  "on  a  subject  of  vital 
interest  to  the  world.  In  fact,  it  is  the  only  sub- 
ject which  can  hold  us  all  in  its  huge  grasp,  which 
can  bring  us  the  peace  and  happiness  which  should 
be  ours — Socialism. 

"There  is  nothing  else  in  all  of  life  but  Social- 
ism, it  embraces  everything,  in  its  true  and  broadest 
sense  it  stands  for  the  brotherhood  of  man.     I  am 
glad  to  tell  you  that  our  party  more  than  doubles 
it's  number  every  four  years  in  the  United  States, 
and  in  Europe  they  did  so,  until  now  they  have  in 
every  parliament  a  strong,  disciplined,  uncompromis- 
ing minority,  which  seeks  reform,  not  office !    We 
do  not  consider  the  individual,  we  consider  work 
for  the  Cause.     We  are  not  aiming  to  win,  yetf 
We  want  a  majority  of  Socialists,  not  votes.     We 
can't  hope  to  be  more  than  a  minority  until  the  peo- 
ple know  enough  to  want  to  work  together,  we  can't 
hope  to  have  a  cooperative  commonwealth  until 
then,  and  when  that  is  accomplished  they  will  have 
developed  a  common  sense  of  common  service,  and 
a  drilled  capacity  for  cooperative  l^bor.     That  is 
the  essence  of  Socialism,  that  idea  of  cooperation, 
.of  working  for  common,    instead    of    individual, 
good.     In  that  way  you  will  get  just  as  much  as 
in  this  one-sided  way  in  vogue  at  present.    Putting 
the  matter  childishly:    If  every  one  works  for  you. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


91 


will  you  not  get  just  as  much,  and  more,  as  though 
you  tried  to  grasp  everything  for  yourself? 

"Socialism  is  a  science,"  Carter  continued,  ap- 
pealing to  his  audience  as  though  expecting  some 
one  to  deny  it.  "It  is  an  interpretation  of  history, 
a  theory  of  social  evolution,  not  a  mere  visionary 
Utopia,  it  is  a  religion,  a  faith,  a  hard,  cold  calcu- 
lation, that  because  things  were,  they  are  as  they 
are,  and  because  they  are  as  now,  they  must,  per- 
force, be  something  diflFerent;  and  that  diflference 
will  tend  more  and  more  to  the  conditions  exempli- 
fied in  Socialism." 

He  spoke  for  an  hour,  ending  feelingly  with  Her- 
bert Spencer's  famous  dictum : 

"None  can  be  free  till  all  are  free;  none  can 
be  happy  till  all  are  happy." 

There  was  another  dinner  at  the  Crowley's  after- 
ward to  which  Leslie,  Tressidar,  Vera,  Angelique, 
Tom,  and  George  Burnley  were  asked.  Don  had 
left  for  the  South  some  days  previous,  and  Leslie 
almost  laughed  at  Margaret's  ponderous  efforts  to 
be  both  host  and  hostess. 

The  lecturer,  one  of  the  guests,  shone  in  a  much 
more  mellow  light  than  at  Vera's  supper.  He  seemed 
to  have  got  nearer  them  all,  and  talked  with  ease 
and  unrestraint  upon  the  theme  so  dear  to  his 
heart. 

Margaret  Crowley,  after  the  first  course  was 
served,  appeared  at  her  best.  She  had  studied  the 
doctrines  of  Carter  for  some  years,  and  was  al- 
most as  familiar  with  them  as  was  the  man  him- 


93 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


;|i 


:-5'l 


self,  and  it  was  she  who  for  the  most  part  an- 
swered Leslie's  many  questions,  turning  every  now 
and  then  a  little  deferentially  (for  her)  to  the  man 
from  whom  she  learned  these  theories. 

"And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  would 
encourage  trusts?"  asked  Leslie  increduously. 
"Why,  I  thought  the  battle  cry  was  'Down  with  the 
trusts !' " 

"Not  at  all,"  cried  Margaret,  with  animation.  "It 
is  the  private  owners  of  the  trusts  who  do  harm. 
Do  you  not  remember  the  last  time  we  discussed 
these  things,  I  was  reading  you  a  speech  of  Mr. 
Carter's  bearing  upon  this  very  thing?  Let  the 
government  own  the  trusts,  removing  the  men  who 
control,  who  exploit  them,  and  also  the  stockhold- 
ers who  draw  unearned  dividends.  People  should 
work  for  what  they  get — it  is  not  sufficient  to  put 
one's  name  to  a  slip  of  paper,  then  sit  back  and 
watch  the  dollars  flow  in,  while  other  people  are 
struggling  valiantly,  using  every  means  in  their 
power  to  earn  a  livelihood,  and  fail." 

"Would  you  have  the  government  seize  the 
trusts,  or  pay  for  them?"  asked  Tressidar,  with  his 
inscrutable  smile,  and  Leslie,  looking  keenly  at  him, 
could  not  tell  whether  he  was  serious  in  his  question 
or  whether  the  smile  cloaked  half  a  sneer. 

"We  would  offer  to  pay  for  them,  we  stand  for 
justice,"  replied  Carter  tensely.  "We  want  to  avoid 
friction,  we  want  not  war  but  evolution.  We  stand 
for  inherited  civilization,  not  cannibalism — blood- 


U 


iw 


THE  WINNING  GAME  93 

shed  Look  at  the  great  reforms  in  the  past-thc 
Civil  War,  for  instance.  Men  of  thought  saw  it 
coming  years  before  the  storm  broke;  they  tried 
to  avert  it  by  offering  to  pay  for  the  slaves.  Just 
imagine  that,  to  avert  the  Civil  War  by  paying  for 
the  slaves!  Of  course  fanatics  on  both  sides  re- 
fused. What  was  the  result?  The  expenditure  of 
a  billion  of  dollars  and  a  million  lives.  All  that 
should  have  been  avoided— it  should  have  come 
peacefully  through  evolution— as  these  reforms  are 
going  to  come." 

"VVhat  is  wrong?"  Vera  Stearns  leaned  across 
Burnley  and  put  the  question  with  a  pretty  puck- 
ering of  her  brows. 

The  man  waited  an  instant,  as  though  hoping 
Margaret  would  answer,  and  when  she  did  not  he 
said  briefly : 

"Capitalism!" 

"What  is  the  remedy?" 

"Socialism!" 

"It  seems  very  intricate,"  sighed  the  widow,  nib- 
bhng  a  bit  of  cheese.  "I  thought  the  main  trouble 
was  overproduction." 

"So  it  is.  in  a  sense;  that  is,  the  people  who  are 
able  to  buy  the  production  don't  want  so  much  of 
It;  and  the  producers  who  want  it,  are  forced 
through  a  lack  of  money  to  go  without  it.  The 
trusts  equalize  matters  in  a  small  way,  a  brutal 
way,  such  as  in  the  instance  of  child  labor  they 
are  as  much  a  part  of  the  'System'  as  the  poor 


:  f 


i 


ff 


li 


94 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


wretched  toilers  themselves,  but  under  Socialism 
that  would  be  changed." 

"How  would  it  be  changed?"  Leslie  put  the 
question  to  Margaret. 

"By  abolishing  profits,"  the  woman  answered 
slowly,  turning  to  her  guest  for  confirmation  and 
approval.  "We  would  produce  for  use,  not  profit. 
We  would  produce  far  more  than  we  do  now,  be- 
cause under  a  more  cultured  civilization,  the  de- 
mand would  be  greater  than  it  is  now.  But  if  we 
found  that  we  were  producing,  in  any  one  line, 
more  than  we  could  use,  we  would  reduce  the  at- 
tractiveness of  labor  in  that  branch  and  increase  it 
in  another.  Germany  now  schools  labor  along  those 
lines  with  entirely  satisfactory  results." 

They  rose  from  the  table,  some  of  them  at  least 
anxious  to  continue  the  discussion. 

Tressidar  was  a  little  bit  bored,  in  fact,  he  rather 
disliked  seeing  Leslie  so  absorbed  in  anything  other 
than  himself. 

As  he  sat  beside  her  on  the  same  divan  upon 
which  he  had  sat  with  Vera  Stearns  some  weeks 
past,  his  eyes  rested  thoughtfully  on  Margaret. 

"I  wonder  whether  women  divide  men  into  two 
classes,  those  they  could  marry,  and  those  they 
could  not  possibly  marry.     Do  they?" 

Leslie  did  not  reply  instantly.     Finally  she  said: 

"I  suppose  I  know  what  you  mean,  but  the  pres- 
ent reference  is  a  little  incomprehensible.  Mar- 
garet is  so — so — big  and  wholly  splendid." 


'f      !| 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


95 


"Exactly!  She  reminds  me  of  some  statuesque 
Grecian  priestess  who  should  sit  beside  a  smoking 
urn  all  day  and  unfold  to  the  passing  pilgrim  the 
inscrutable  decree  of  the  gods.  She  is  the  kind  of 
woman  one  could  never  get  near,  one  who  has  few 
longings,  consequently  few  temptations.  She 
would  never  digress  one  jot  from  the  straight  and 
uninteresting  pathway,  and  could  not  condone  or 
even  understand  a  lapse,  no  matter  how  great  the 
provocation,  in  any  one  else.  I  could  not  breathe 
in  such  a  constantly  uplifted  atmosphere." 

Leslie  smiled  appreciatively.  She  was  rather  sur- 
prised, almost  disturbed,  by  Algy's  accurate  read- 
ing of  Margaret,  and  she  thought,  with  a  sort  of 
mental  gasp,  that  perhaps  he  had  been  as  clever  in 
seeing  her  own  little  foibles  and  subterfuges.  What 
a  contempt  he  would  have  for  a  woman  he  could 
read  easily! 

"What  is  the  matter?"  the  Englishman  asked, 
as  Leslie  rose  suddenly  and  walked  toward  the 
piano,  "have  I  offended  you  by  my  frank  criticism 
of  your  friend?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  only  feel  my  pitiful  in- 
ability to  cope  with  any  one  so  clever — that's  all." 

"I  never  quite  know  whether  you  are  joking  or 
not,"  complained  Algy. 

"I  don't  mean  you  to,"  laughed  the  girl.  "Listen 
while  I  quote  you  something: 

"  'The  woman  who  knows,  and  knows  she  knows 
— she  is  wise,  follow  her. 


;    ( 


if 


96 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


"  'The  woman  who  knows  not,  and  knows  not 
she  !;nows  not,  she  is  foolish,  shun  her. 

"  'The  woman  who  knows  not,  and  knows  she 
knows  not,  she  is  childish,  teach  her. 

"  'The  woman  who  knows,  and  knows  not  she 
knows,  she  is  asleep,  wake  her.'  " 


i 


! 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


91 


CHAPTER  XII. 


Walter  Bryce  was  quietly  married,  and  after  a 
reasonable  honeymoon  brought  his  child  bride 
home  for  his  aunts  to  take  care  of.  They  did  not 
wholly  discourage  the  idea  of  his  marriage,  not 
knowing  all  of  the  facts  in  connection  with  that 
episode,  and  hoped,  with  wistful  longing,  that  this 
was  the  one  thing  needed  to  make  Walter  "settle 
down."  The  father  of  Mrs.  Bryce  had  more 
worldly  views,  in  fact,  with  bi  atal  frankness,  which 
rather  hurt  the  young  man's  befuddled  sensibili- 
ties, he  made  himself  amply  clear,  that  Bryce  would 
marry  his  daughter  and  lend  a  respectability,  com- 
batible  with  his  exalted  position  as  "wardheeler," 
or  he  would  know  the  reason  why! 

Poor  little  Clara  Bryce,  from  the  first,  had  pity 
meted  out  to  her.  Every  one  "poored"  her,  every 
one  hoped  for  the  best,  but  instinctively  looked  for 
the  worst.  She  adorsd  Walter  with  that  utter 
abandonment  and  lavishness  of  demonstration  in- 
dicative of  the  frugal  intellect,  which  eventually  ir- 
ritated even  him.  When  he  left  her  in  the  even* 
ings,  too  satiated  with  her  caresses  to  even  tolerate 
h-r  presence  at  the  theatre,  Aunt  Polly  and  Aunt 
Libby  sang  his  praises  with  her;  when  he  came 


^ 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


1^ 


i"_-t 


;l, 


home  in  a  maudlin  state  of  imbecility,  he  easily 
persuaded  her  that  he  had  dined  and  wined  rather 
less  sumptuously  than  the  other  members  of  the 
party — those  things  were  among  the  privileges 
which  "gentlemen  of  birth  and  fashion"  enjoy. 
Alas  for  little  Mrs.  Bryce,  these  privileges  were  en- 
joyed with  monotonous  frequency  by  her  husband 
of  birth  and  fashion.  \A^hen  Walter  married,  the 
aunts  made  another  inroad  upon  their  little  bank 
account,  in  order  that  his  wife  might  share  what- 
ever comforts  and  luxuries  he  did.  Needless  to 
say,  Clara  forever  remained  in  ignorance  of  the 
provision  made  for  her. 

Since  the  night  of  Vera  Stearns'  reception  Bryce 
had  frequently  dined  with  Tressidar,  though  to  do 
the  latter  justice,  he  vowed  after  each  time  this 
would  surely  be  the  last.  As  at  the  beginning  of 
their  acquaintance,  Algy  always  felt  a  contempt 
and  loathing  for  this  puppy;  yet  because  he  rather 
inclined  to  move  along  the  line  of  the  least  re- 
sistance, he  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded  to 
spend  the  first  hour  with  Walter  Bryce.  After  that 
it  was  he  who  prolonged  the  night  of  revelry. 

It  was  after  an  evening  spent  in  this  fashion, 
early  in  May,  that  Algy  found  himself  totally  un- 
able, at  two  o'clock,  to  keep  an  appointment  with 
Leslie. 

This  was  the  second  time  lately  he  had  failed 
her,  the  first  being  a  morning  ride  in  the  park,  some 
two  weeks  before.  It  seemed  a  cruel  jest  of  Fate 
that  she  and  Walter  should  want  him  at  the  same 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


99 


time,  and  while  Algy  found  himself  more  and  more 
ready  to  answer  to  the  feminine  call,  he  could  not 
withstand  the  old  desire.  At  least,  he  did  not  care 
to  resist  it,  that  is  the  way  he  put  the  matter  to  him- 
self, he  did  not  want  to  see  Leslie  so  much — enough 
to  refuse  to  spend  an  evening  now  and  again  with 
Bryce. 

For  his  seeing  Leslie  had  gradually  grown  to  be 
a  daily  occurrence.  Perhaps  for  days  he  did  not 
see  her  alone,  but  in  some  way  they  met.  Often 
Mrs.  Stearns  invited  him  there,  perhaps  Miss  Da- 
vies  asked  him  to  her  home,  frequently  Burnley, 
Scott,  or  some  of  the  men  brought  them  together, 
and  when  no  one  else  did,  Leslie  herself  always  had 
a  little  jaunt  to  suggest.  And  if  the  idea  itself  did 
not  wholly  appeal  to  him  at  first,  he  soon  forgot 
his  lack  of  enthusiasm  in  the  exhilaration  of  the 
girl's  presence. 

Too  stupid,  by  far,  to  realize  more  than  his  utter 
inability  to  rise,  Tressidar  mentally  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  wondered  how  she  would  "take  it." 
Then  he  dropped  off  to  sleep  again,  and  forgot  a 
thumping  headache,  a  pair  of  burning  eyeballs,  a 
much-enlarged  and  very  dry  tongue,  a  gently  rock- 
ing bed,  and — a  pair  of  reproachful,  sorrow-laden 
hazel  eyes. 

Although  Leslie  had  not  been  present  when 
Burnley  and  Vera  Stearns  made  up  the  party,  she 
understood  that  six  of  them  were  to  take  a  trip  up 
the  Hudson,  and,  of  course,  Tressidar  was  invited. 
He  had  seemed  to  fit  into  their  crowd  quite  natur- 


* 


*\'t 


H 


III 


lOO 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


ally,  and  attained  a  sort  of  familiar  footing  among 
them,  sliding  easily  and  gracefully  into  the  vacant 
place  left  by  Albert  Matheson,  without  years  or 
months  of  preliminary  acquaintance. 

As  two  o'clock  struck  and  Tressidar  had  not 
come,  Leslie  allowed  herself  a  moment's  honest 
thought  and  introspection.  A  peculiar  lassitude 
stole  over  her  as  she  grew  assured  that  he  was  not 
coming,  which  was  not  entirely  due  to  a  longing  for 
his  presence. 

There  had  been  so  many  instances  of  Tressidar's 
lack  of  punctuality  that  one  more  or  less  did  not 
matter,  except  that  some  day  had  to  be  a  reckoning 

Naturally,  a  slight  of  any  kind  to  her  was  hard 
to  bear.  A  girl  who  has  become  accustomed  to  the 
deference,  homage,  and  adoration  of  men  has  a 
right  to  look  for,  at  least,  an  observance  of  the  fun- 
damental social  laws.  But  to  these  Algy  seemed 
oblivious— that  is,  he  always  apologized  for  his 
non-observance  of  tliem— and  repeated  the  offense. 
Fmally  it  became  a  matter  of  gigantic  moment,  to 
hold  him  to  his  word.  And  a  great  question  arose 
m  her  mind,  why  did  he  not  keep  his  engagements  ? 
Was  it  because  he  was  bored  ?  Hardly !  No  one", 
not  even  Tressidar,  could  feign  constant  pleasure 
m  her  society,  and  this  he  surely  felt,  acted,  and 
finally  acknowledged. 

Perhaps  he  felt  himself  unable  to  keep  pace  with 
the  generous  spendthrifts,  for  all  of  the  men  Les- 
lie knew  intimately  were  men  of  means,  but  that 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


lOI 


could  hardly  be  the  reason — even  they  were  not  as 
lavish  as  Tressidar.  Could  it  be  another  woman? 
Did  she  know  how  or  where  he  spent  all  those  other 
hours  ? 

"Do  you  believe  that  a  man  of  birth  and  edu- 
cation can  really  love  a  woman  who  is  his  in- 
ferior?" Algy  had  asked  her  one  day,  apropos  of 
nothing  apparently. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  she  had  answered.  "Do  you 
mean — marry  her?" 

"Yes,  marry  her.  Think  of  the  men  who  often 
marry  their  housekeepers  or  their  trained  nurses, 
to  go  a  step  higher.  Why  do  you  suppose  they 
doit?" 

Leslie  laughed  a  little.  "I  think  you  must  be 
trying  to  tease,  or  perhaps  pave  the  way  for  a  joke, 
aren't  you?  That  is  almost  too  silly  a  question  to 
answer!" 

"Well,  be  silly  for  once  and  answer  it!  I  know 
that  you  think  like  I  do,  that  there  is  no  love  in  a 
case  of  that  kind,"  he  paused  for  a  moment,  "don't 
you?" 

Leslie  smiled  into  his  eyes. 

"In  the  housekeeper's  case,  perhaps  not,  though 
I  can  imagine  even  that.  It  is  the  womanly  woman 
who  makes  the  appeal,  and  usually  the  womanly 
woman  and  the  woman  of  keen  intellect  are  not  the 
same  person,  are  they  ?" 

"Sometimes,"  answered  Algy,  looking  straight 
at  Leslie.     "Yes,  sometimes,"  he  repeated. 

"Not  usually,  I  said;  let  me  emphasize  usually t 


i  >'■: 


102 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


In  the  case  of  the  trained  nurse,  I  think  often  an 
element  of  gratitude  is  at  the  bottom  of  what  men 
mistake  for  love.     Beside  that,  their  lazy  natures 
are  fostered,  they  are  so  efficiently  taken  care  of  " 
she  laughed.     "Don't  you  remember    that    Mark 
Iwam  said  the  only  times  he  was  ever  supremely 
happy  were  when  he  got  his  Oxford  degree  and 
when  he  had  the  measles?     Men  are  like  that— 
they  hke  making  a  sensation,  and  nurses  are  trained 
to  humor  Idiotic  whims,   don't  you  think,  which 
would  be  pooh-poohed  in  a  married  man's  home 
by  his  wife,  no  matter  how  loving  she  was     The 
patient  in  question  therefore  probably  thinks  to  him- 
self that  this  white-capped  angel  is  his  affinity,  he 
lies  in  bed  and  revels  in  the  idea  that  he  is  to  be 
catered  to  and  taken  care  of  this  way  for  years  to 
come.  '' 

"Well?" 

"Well,  he  usually  isn't." 

"Yes,  but  does  he  love  her?"  repeated  Algy  in- 
sistently, hoping  to  see  the  pink  creep  into  Leslie's 
cheeks,  as  it  generally  did  during  any  intimate  dis- 
cussion regarding  love. 

"Of  course  not,"  she  had  answered.  "In  fact, 
I  sometimes  ask  myself  do  men  ever  love  women?"' 

She  said  the  words  slowly,  looking  past  Algy  out 
into  the  smoky  sky.  She  had  seemed  to  follow 
her  thoughts  literally,  leaving  him  alone,  behind 
her. 

For  an  instant  neither  spoke,  then  Leslie  was 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


103 


aroused  by  a  subtle  something  in  his  voice  as  he 
asked  the  question: 

"Do  you  make  us  love  you  ?" 
She  chose  to  misunderstand  him. 
"I  should  say  there  is  proof  enough  of  that. 
Look  at  the  actresses  who  make  men  love  them, 
who  make  ..len  break  good  wives'  hearts,  and  who 
cause  finaL:ial  ruin,  as  well,  to  hundreds  of  homes." 
^^  "Now  we  are  getting  to  the  point,"  replied  Algy, 
"and  I  refer  to  my  question  once  more,  do  men 
love  women  who  are  not  their  equals  ?" 

"But  some  of  these  women  are  not  only  equals, 
but  superiors,"  objected  Leslie;  she  fe't  an  under- 
current of  something  undefinable  in  all  of  Tressi- 
dar's  serious  discussions,  he  seemed  to  enter  into 
things  so  coolly,  with  so  little  heart— just  head,  that 
she  put  a  strict  curb  on  herself  for  fear  that,  im- 
pulsively, she  would  be  trapped  into  an  admission, 
she  would  afterward  regret.  In  other  words,  Les- 
lie always  tried,  intuitively  or  otherwise,  to  see 
Algy's  point  long  before  he  had  led  her  up  to  it. 

"Seldom,"  contradicted  the  man.  "Their  edu- 
cation is  only  in  their  own  line,  and  their  sole  aim 
in  life  is  to  be  admired  and  kow-towed  to." 

"I  have  known    several    actresses "   began 

Leslie. 

"So,  by  George,  have  I !" 

"However,  the  ones  I  have  known  and  the  ones 
you  have  known  would  be  different,"  the  girl  said, 
in  a  tone  which  implied  that  it  was  only  natural 
that  Tressidar  should  chose  the  chorus  girls  as  the 


■  f 


104 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


I 


li! 


m 


If 


in 

h 


.1., 


I?    {' 


M 


evening's  diversion,  and  that  she  should  make  a 
friend  of  the  star,  a  v^roman  whom  she  could  invite 
to  her  home. 

And  Algy,  taken  off  his  guard  by  the  positive 
manner  in  which  she  spoke  of,  and  accepted  this 
statement  which  was  a  fact,  answered: 

"Yes,  probably." 

"I  should  like  to  have  seen  you  during  the  throes 
of  your  first  grande  passion,"  she  continued,  speak- 
ing lightly.  "You  doubtless  followed  the  panto- 
mime girls  about  like  faithful  Fido.  Have  you  for- 
gotten?" 

"By  no  means,"  laughed  the  other.  "In  fact,  I 
can't  remember  the  time  when  some  actress  has  not 
interested  me." 

"Not  now!"  Leslie  pretended  to  be  incredulous. 
"Not  now,  when  you  realize  how  transient  the 
glitter  is," 

"Well,  the  clever  girls,  don't  let  you  see  that 
it  is  transient,"  admitted  Tressidar.  "Of  course 
they  haven't  diamond  butterflies  attached  to  tartan 
skirts,  and  the  pink  kid  slippers  are  only  for  the 
footlights — but  they  are  an  awfully  jolly  lot,  most 
of  them." 

"I  suppose  the  English  girls  are  of  a  better  class 
than  ours,"  Leslie  mused  aloud. 

And  again  her  apparent  lack  of  curiosity,  her  air 
of  simply  contin  lirg  a  conversation  misled  Tres- 
sidar. 

"Oh,  I  have  met  some  very  attractive  girls  out 
here,  too." 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


105 


"Really?"  The  tone  might  have  been  his  own 
for  indifference. 

"Yes,  a  week  or  so  ago  I  met  some  of  the  Floro- 
dora  company,  had  supper  with  them,  in  fact."  He 
stopped,  a  little  confused,  remembering  that  it  was 
Bryce  who  took  him  out  that  evening,  and  that  the 
following  morning  he  had  been  unable  to  ride  with 
Leslie. 

But  she,  noticing  his  hesitation,  construed  it  dif- 
ferently, and  thinking  of  that  conversation  now,  a 
burning  blush  dyed  her  face.  How  much,  after 
all,  did  she  know  of  any  of  the  men  she  called  her 
friends?  Vera  Stearns  had  always  been  her  au- 
thority in  the  old  days — telling  her  what  men  she 
should  know — and  although  too  wise  in  this  world's 
wickedness  to  look  for  absolute  morality  in  a  man, 
Leslie  had  never  felt  it  matter  before. 

Just  now  the  thought  that  Tressidar  might  be 
dividing  his  attention  between  her  and  another 
woman,  a  member  of  the  Florodora  or  any  other 
company,  stung  Leslie  into  bitter  shame.  She  re- 
peated to  herself  the  thing  she  had  thought  so  often 
of  late,  that  he  was  carelessly  attentive  to  her.  He 
neither  allowed  their  acquaintance  to  progress  on  a 
basis  of  friendship,  nor  did  he  let  it  culminate  in 
anything  else.  At  any  rate,  he  was  not  coming. 
What  was  he  doing?" 

"Don,"  Leslie  called  through  the  'phone,  "can 
you  come  for  me?" 

"Why,    I    thought "   began    Crowley,    then 

stopped.    "Of  course  I  can,  only  won't  it  save  time 


It  > 


4 


io6 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


M 
i  I 


for  you  to  meet  us  downtown?  I  am  a  little  late 
myself,  and  thought,  of  course,  every  one  else  had 
started." 

"I  am  just  ready  now,"  said  Leslie,  "and  will 
take  the  subway." 

They  met  some  moments  later. 

The  girl's  lack  of  enthusiasm  puzzled  Crowley 
a  little. 

"Have  you  a  headache?"  he  asked,  in  a  man's 
usual  way. 

"Why,  no." 

"Don't  you  want  to  go?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Leslie  answered  quickly,  put  upon 
her  guard  by  Don's  question.  "Yes,  indeed,  I  shall 
love  it!     Is  Margaret  going?" 

Crowley  shook  his  head. 

"She  is  engaged  with  some  bomb  manufacturer 
or  otherwise  explosive  gentleman,  interested  in  the 
noble  scheme  of  mankind's  betterment,  so  we  are  a 
girl  short.  It  is  just  as  well  that  Tressidar  can't 
come." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  Leslie's  tongue  to  ask  Don 
why  he  couldn't  come,  but  fearing  that  he  only 
judged  such  was  the  case,  by  his  non-appearance 
with  her,  she  merely  answered: 

"Just  as  well!" 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


107 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Vera  Stearns  moved  to  her  country  house  about 
the  middle  of  June.  For  the  last  two  or  three  years 
Leslie  had  always  gone  down  with  her  to  help  her. 
Vera  insisting  that  she  was  under  the  doctor's  or- 
ders not  to  exert  or  overwork  herself. 

"A  totally  unnecessary  command,"  Vera  assured 
her  friends,  frankly,  "but  then  he  has  only  known 
me  since  childhood!" 

However,  this  year  Leslie  pleaded  an  urgent 
necessity  for  staying  in  town :  the  Newsboys'  Club, 
the  Fresh  Air  Fund,  the  Playgrounds,  and  many 
other  charities  in  which  she  took  an  active  interest 
kept  her,  so  she  said.  Vera  was  accustomed  to  ac- 
quiescing without  argument,  so  she  went  to  De- 
schenes  alone  for  two  weeks.  Then  the  house,  be- 
ing in  it's  gala  dress,  spread  welcoming  arms  to  "the 
crowd." 

The  night  they  all  arrived  Burnley  announced 
that  he  was  going  to  give  "a  party." 

"You  are  all  invited,"  he  said  grandiloquently, 
"including  Vera,  there !  I  have  always  prided  my- 
self upon  my  democratic  ideas." 

In  the  same  spirit  every  one  thanked  him,  except 
Angelique  Brabazon,  and  perhaps  Herbert  Carter, 


1 1 


io8 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


v\ 


I 


H 


(    ! 


1 


who  could  not  withstand  Vera's  urgent  request  to 
come  down  at  least  for  the  week-end. 

"What  will  Mr.  Burnley  do?"  asked  Angelique 
of  Leslie  seriously. 

"Nothing,"  answered  the  other,  smiling.  "Prob- 
ably order  the  servants  around,  and  us,  too,  for 
that  matter,  mixing  up  the  places  at  the  table,  and 
perhaps  pair  us  off  the  way  we  don't  want  to  go- 
all  except  himself  and  Vera." 

"But  why  do  he  say  he  is  to  mek  ze  party?" 
asked  the  French  girl,  mystified. 

"Just  a  whim,"  answered  Leslie,  "a  mere  fancy, 
a  jest — une  drolerie — what  you  will." 

"Mon  Dieu,  what  jokes!"  sighed  Angelique. 

George  Burnley  had  a  surprise  in  store  for  the 
guests,  however,  in  fact  it  was  something  of  a  sur- 
prise to  his  hostess;  he  announced  his  engagement 
to  her,  and  presented  her  with  a  most  ravishing 
Princess  ring. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  old  schooldays  Vera 
succumbed  to  a  transient  and  fleeting  embarrass- 
ment. 

"Vera  asked  me  to  tell  you  to-night,"  volun- 
teered Burnley,  with  a  fatuous  look  at  his  fiancee. 
"I  had  not  mtended  to  commit  myself  so  soon,  but 
once  having  become  entangled  (my  fascinations 
have  proven  too  strong  for  her  to  resist)  she  has 
'hooked  me.'     Gentlemen,  be  warned!" 

Congratulations  were  enthusiastic  and  sincere. 
To  Angelique's  dramatic  mind,  the  whole  affair 
smacked  of  delightful  romance. 


THE  WINNING  GAME  109 

Tom  Edge  had  glimmerings  of  a  repetition  of  the 
occurrence  in  vvhicli  the  principals  were  different, 
Margaret  Crowley  and  Mr.  Carter  were  ponder- 
ously pleased,  and  Leslie  Loring's  heart  fairly 
ached  with  the  fulness  of  its  joy  for  her  friends. 
Tressidar  and  Don  had  alike  become  unfathomable, 
and  she  had  about  given  up  struggling  with  a  tire- 
some problem. 

"Wasn't  my  party  a  success?"  George  asked  her, 
after  dinner.  He  was  beaming  like  a  boy  of 
twenty. 

"A  huge,  vast,  prodigious,  large,  immense,  gi- 
gantic, colossal.  Success,"  Leslie  answered  gayly. 
"The  Success  of  the  Season." 

"Oh,  wait,"  interrupted  the  man  darkly.  "That 
is  the  point  which  worries  me.  I  don't  know  that 
it  will  be  the  success  of  the  season." 

Angelique,  Tom,  and  Tressidar  had  joined  them. 

"What.?"  asked  Algy. 

Burnley  shook  his  head  gloomily. 

"I  was  telling  Leslie  that  this  brilliant  idea  of 
mine  may  not  turn  to  my  own  advantage.  You 
see,"  he  explained,  with  ridiculous  gestures,  "you 
see,  instead  of  punctuating  the  summer  with  dra- 
matic competitions,  as  we  have  done  in  years  gone 
by,  I  conceived  the  idea  of  letting  engagements  take 
their  place.  I  know  the  announcement  of  mine 
took  you  all  completely  by  surprise"— Angelique 
laughed  delightedly — "but  then  you  scarcely  re- 
alize what  a  designing,  insatiable  octopus  Vera  is." 

"Shame,"  jeered  Leslie. 


no 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


U' 


i    t 


"Kindly  refrain  from  interrupting,"  haughtily 
remarked  Burnley.  "Now,  as  each  engagement  is 
announced,  it  will  receive  high  marks  in  proportion 
to  the  surprise  it  creates,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
season  the  couple  with  the  highest  mark  may  ex- 
pect  " 

"A  prize,"  suggested  Tom  Edge. 

" to  join  Vera  and  her  husband  in  Mentonc 

about  Christmas  time.  Of  course,"  he  continued 
blandly,  "of  course  we  have  a  little  chart,  as  it  were, 
pairing  oflf  the  couples,  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
stimulate  their  ambition  to  enter  this  contest;  for 
instance,"  his  eyes  wandered  vaguely  around  the 
group,  at  last  meeting  those  of  Angelique  who  did 
not  exactly  know  how  much  of  this  was  serious 
and  how  much  jest.  Catching  her  glance,  he  slowly 
but  intelligently  transferred  his  look  to  Tom,  who, 
half  expecting  it,  had  moved  behind  Tressidar. 

They  all  were  obliged  to  laugh,  though  Leslie 
tried  to  be  stern,  and  mumbled,  "Beast!" 

"Or,"  Burnley  went  on  oblivious,  apparently,  to 
the  epithet  flung  at  him,  "or " 

Don  Crowley  sat  with  his  back  to  them,  talking 
to  Elsie  Davies,  and  was  therefore  unconscious  of 
the  calculating  scrutiny  of  George's  glance.  This 
travelled  slowly  back  to  Leslie,  who,  with  scarlet 
cheeks  was  trying  to  make  conversation.  Suddenly 
a  change  occurred  to  Burnley,  a  change  in  his  pro- 
gram, for  he  fixed  Tressidar  with  a  stern,  relent- 
less eye,  raised  his  brows  questioningly,  and  finally 
nodded  to  himself  with  immense  satisfaction. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


III 


Leslie  had,  in  the  meantime,  crossed  the  room  to 
Vera,  and  was  arranging  for  the  coming  week's 
festivities. 

Since  the  day  Tressidar  had  failed  her,  she  had 
not  seen  him  very  often.  His  attitude,  as  usual, 
puzzled  her,  and  the  exact  .standing  she  should  take 
in  the  matter  was  something  of  a  problem,  too. 

If  she  had  been  wholly  or  even  mildly  disinter- 
ested she  would  have  listened  politely  to  his  apology 
and  never  allowed  him  the  .same  footing  again. 
Unfortunately  she  was  tremendously  interested,  and 
the  small,  insistent  voice  of  her  heart  called  out 
against  the  big  gruff  voice  of  her  reason,  urging 
her  to  give  him  another  chance. 

Vera  had  been  most  indignant  at  his  disappoint- 
ing them,  and  vowed  .'  «  nothing  short  of  the 
man's  death,  or  at  least  a  roke  of  paralysis,  would 
induce  her  to  reinstall  him  in  her  f..vor.  For  an  in- 
stant Leslie's  heart  stood  still.  If  Vera  really  meant 
this,  Tressidar  would  not  be  included  among  the 
guests  for  her  house  party.  An  impulse  was  strong 
to  plead  for  him,  then  two  things  intervened,  her 
pride  and  her  reason.  Not  even  Vera  should  know 
that  it  mattered,  that  her  head  and  heart  ached  on 
account  of  this  indifferent  Englishman  who  evi- 
dently felt  himself  superior  enough  to  treat  her  as 
he  pleased.  Her  reason  argued  that  pleading  his 
cause  would  not  win  the  point. 

"I  don't  believe  he  is  worth  considering,  Vera," 
Leslie  said  indifferently.  "You  must  have  noticed 
how  we  urge  him  to  join  us,  and  when  he  does  not 


XI2 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


care  to  come  he  simply  leaves  us  in  the  lurch  at  the 
last  moment,  and  goes  his  own  sweet  way.  I  call 
him  a  decided  boor." 

"A  boor,"  shrieked  Mrs.  Steams,  "a  boor  I  Why, 
girl,  you  are  crazy!" 

"Well,  he  has  no  manners,"  insisted  Leslie.  "A 
person  with  bad  manners  is  a  boor,  isn't  he  ?" 

"Why,  he  has  the  most — the  most — charming 
manners  of  any  man  I  have  ever  known,"  replied 
the  widow  positively,  "and  you  know  it.  I  think 
you  are  very  exacting." 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  could 
hardly  keep  from  laughing.  "I  certainly  am,"  she 
assented,  "if  expecting  a  man  to  keep  an  engage- 
ment with  me  is  a  test." 

"He  was  ill,"  objected  the  other,  "and  explained 
that  he  overslept  himself  until  too  late  to  telephone. 
You  know  that." 

"Sounds  fishy,"  commented  Vera's  friend,  with 
another  shrug.  "I  know  he  won't  be  an  addition 
to  the  houseparty,"  she  continued,  aghast  at  her  own 
duplicity  and  boldness. 

"Addition,"  fairly  screamed  the  other.  "Why,  I 
should  not  consider  the  party  at  all  but  for  him." 

"You  are  going  to  ask  him,  then?"  questioned 
Leslie,  with  well-feigned  astonishment. 

Vera's  contempt  was  too  great  for  words. 

"Well,  I  should  think  George  would  be  jealous," 
suggested  Leslie  at  last. 

"He  is,"  laughed  the  other,  "and  I  know  some 


c* 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


113 


one  else  who  is,  too."    Her  eyes  had  a  wicked 
twinkle. 

"Who?" 

"I  know  something  I  won't  tell,"  sang  Vera, 
rushing  off  to  answer  the  telephone.  "His  name 
begins  with  D." 

Tressidar  had  certainly  seemed  very  glad  to  ac- 
cept the  invitation.  He  got  his  riding  clothes 
pressed,  he  laid  in  a  supply  of  flannels,  and  pur- 
chased himself  a  tennis  racket  and  other  accessories 
necessary  to  a  summer's  outing,  Crowley,  George 
Burnley,  and  Tom  Edge  were  to  take  a  month's 
holiday  and  form  "the  family,"  with  Angelique, 
Leslie,  Elsie  Davies,  and  Vera.  Carter,  young 
Scott,  and  the  Count  were  listed  among  week-end 
guests  and  the  summer  promised  to  be  very  en- 
joyable. 

The  first  evening  at  Deschenes  was  spent  on  the 
veranda  en  famille.  The  moon  rose  in  golden 
splendor  over  the  magnificent  oaks,  which  gave  the 
place  its  name,  making  the  lawn  wave  with  an  un- 
reality, a  mystery  of  shadows,  which  hushed  the 
merry  crowd  into  silence. 

Tom  Edge  moved  his  chair  a  shade  nearer  An- 
gelique. Every  one  seemed  to  gravitate  to  some 
one  else  or  to  wish  to.  "Will  you  sing?"  he  asked 
softly. 

"Me?  What?  Oh,  no,  I  do  not  sing  without 
ze  pian-o.     It  ess  si  stupide,  n'est  ce-pas?     But 

Leslie,  zere Ah,  you  know  how  she  mek  us 

cry  wis  ze  ban-jo,  is  it  not.  Vera?" 


I 


f 


114 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


Hi     * 

\\  t  1 

t 


H-^ 


ii 


't 


ft 


"Oh,  do,  Leslie,  please!"  There  was  a  babel  of 
entreaty  for  an  instant. 

Then  Leslie  rose  slowly.  "Don't  make  such  a 
fuss,"  she  complained  almost  petulantly,  "you  seem 
to  be  disturbing  even  the  moonbeams.  Of  course 
I'll  sing,  if  you  like." 

In  the  doorway  she  paused.  "You  want  the 
banjo,  Angelique — why  not  the  guitar?" 

"Regarde,"  cried  Mile.  Brabazon  dramatically, 
"she  Stan  lak  dat,  all  in  white,  ze  red  rose  at  her 
breast,  it  look  black,  sad,  an'  of  ze  broken  heart- 
so  soft — so  what  you  call — appeal — not  gay,  aban- 
don, lak  ze  Spanish  of  ze  guitar'" 

"Bravo!"  Tressidar  clapped  his  hands  lightly. 
"Mademoiselle  is  right.  Miss  Loring;  let  me  help 
you  find  the  banjo." 

"There  is  nothing  you  can't  do,"  he  continued,  as 
they  passed  into  the  music  room,  "is  there?" 

Leslie  turned  to  him  without  smiling,  and  let 
him  look  long  into  her  uplifted  face,  into  her  deep, 
gray  eyes. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered  slowly.  "I  am 
going  to  find  out." 

The  man  caught  his  breath  sharply,  instinctively 
he  knew  that,  in  some  way,  she  referred  to  him; 
she  appealed  to  him  as  never  before,  and,  standing 
there  in  the  moonlit  room,  he  longed  to  crush  her  to 
him,  to  feel  her  breath  on  his  cheek,  to  put  his 
mouth  upon  hers,  hard,  until  she  struggled  in  his 
arms,  until  she  murmured  through  her  ki' s-bound 
lips,  "You  are  hurting  me  1" 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


115 


'  Margaret  Crowley's  voice  broke  the  spell.  "Bring 
a  scarf  for  me,  please,  Leslie,"  she  called. 

Tressidar  let  the  girl  go  out  on  the  verandah 
alone,  he  pleaded  the  excuse  of  going  upstairs  for 
more  cigarettes.  In  reality  he  wauted  a  drink  to 
steady  himself.  Never  in  all  his  woman-spattered 
life  had  he  so  nearly  lost  himself,  that  is,  at  a  time 
when  he  had  not  meant  to.  At  this  rate  he  could 
not  hold  himself  in  check  much  longer. 

When  he  joined  the  others  Leslie  was  sitting  on 
the  floor  with  her  banjo  close  against  the  blood-red 
rose,  and  she  was  singing  this  song : 

I  b^ilt  a  temple  in  my  heart, 

Where  moth  and  rust  can  never  come, 

A  temple  swept  and  kept  apart, 
To  make  my  soul  a  home. 

And  round  about  the  doors  of  it, 
Hang  garlands  which  forever  last, 

Which  gathered  once  can  never  fade — 
The  Roses  of  the  Past. 


He  could  not  tell  what  made  the  song  so  sad, 
he  could  not  explain  why  the  song  affected  him  so 
strangely,  what  magic  was  in  the  singer's  voice — 
he  only  knew  that  a  great  sob  rose  in  his  throat, 
an  overwhelming  regret  surged  over  him  for  things 
shrouded  by  the  veil  of  time.  An  agony  of  long- 
ing impelled  him  to  be  the  man  he  knew  she  would 
have  him  be ;  the  desire  of  a  half  an  hour  ago  was 
still  strong  in  him — he  wanted  her. 


ii6 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


1 


"Elsie,"  cried  Leslie,  throwing  the  banjo  aside; 
"Elsie  Davies,  don't  you  dare  to  cry!" 

"Oh,  Leslie,  it  is  so  sad,"  half  sobbed  the  other, 
"and  it  reminds  me  of  poor  old  Mathie.  How 
could  you  sing  it  to-night?" 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  then  Les- 
lie whispered : 

"I  think  he  likes  to  hear  it." 

In  that  instant  Tressidar's  heart  burned  with  a 
blind,  unreasoning  jealousy,  even  of  the  memory 
of  Albert  Matheson.  "I  am  going  in  for  the 
heiress,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  I  am  going  to 
play  a  winning  game." 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


117 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  days  sped  by  with  alarming  rapidity.  Half 
of  the  month  was  gone,  and  as  Burnley  naively  put 
it,  the  contest  was  still  open  to  competitors.  Every 
night,  at  dinner,  he  would  look  askance  at  each 
member  of  the  party,  and  raise  an  interrogative  eye- 
brow. ,,- 
"No  luck  at  all,"  he  would  say  despondently.  1 
think,  my  dear  Vera,  that  you  are  not  a  very 
savante  hostess." 

The  Count  who  was  one  of  the  party  this  night, 
looked  keenly  interested.  "I  want  ze  prize,"  he 
said,  with  about  as  much  coquetry  as  his  bird-hke 
self  could  assume.  "I  want  ze  prize!  I  should  say 
it  ess  plain  to  be  seen,  that  in  each  of  dese  charm- 
ing young  ladies,  Mrs.  Stearns  has  given  us  ze 
chance  of  a  prize." 

Leslie,  who  was  a  bit  tired  of  the  monotonous 
jest,  spoke  conversationally: 

"They  say  that  the  getting  of  a  thing  is  pure  y 
a  matter  of  desire,  that  if  one  wants  a  thing  bad  y 
enough,  one  can  have  it.  I  rather  think  I  should 
get  a  thing  I  wanted  very  much." 

Algy,  who  was  sitting  beside  her,  put  his  ser- 
viette to  his  lips. 


ii8 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


"Oh,  deah,"  he  simpered  foolishly,  in  a  shrill 
falsetto.  "Oh,  deah,  girls,  I  wonder  if  she  means 
me!" 

Every  one  laughed,  and  Leslie  felt  that  she  must 
make  good,  so,  turning  cold  eyes  of  scrutiny  upon 
her  neighbour,  slie  answered: 

"I  thought  I  had  effectually  cloaked  you  under 
the  guise  of  a  Thing.  If  you  will  persist  in  allow- 
ing your  personality  to  intrude  itself  upon  my  con- 
versation, you  must  take  the  consequences.  A 
Thing  is  far  worse  than  a  'person,'  or  even  a 
'party.'  "    And  she  turned  her  back  upon  him. 

Tressidar  extracted  a  notebook  from  his  pocket, 
tore  out  a  leaf,  and  wrote  something  upon  it.  Then 
beckoning  the  butler,  he  said  in  an  unnecessarily 
loud  voice,  "Deliver  that  at  once  to  Miss  Loring." 

The  waiter  handed  the  tray  to  Leslie  who  read 
the  words: 

"Return  at  once,  all  is  forgiven.  They  say  the 
chee-ild  is  in  London. 

"Parents." 

Of  course  she  laughed,  with  the  keen  apprecia- 
tion of  one  who  recognizes  greater  ability  in  a 
loved  one,  than  is  possessed  by  oneself.  Algy  was 
serious  or  frivolous  just  as  her  moods  dictated, 
only  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  just  a  little  more 
so  than  she  ever  was. 

Tom  Edge  rose  shyly  from  his  chair. 

"I  believe  this  is  my  party,  to-night,"  he  said, 
smiling  at  Angelique. 

"Eh?    What?"    Burnley  held  his  glass  poised  in 


I 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


119 


midair.  "Has  the  young  idea  begun  to  shoot  ?"  he 
asked  incredulously.  "Is  it  possible  that  my  meagre 
little  jest  has  brought  forth  results?" 

A  glance  at  Angelique's  face  answered  the  ques- 
tion— and  much  merriment  ensued. 

"There  are  only  a  few  of  us  left,"  suggested 
the  Count  to  Leslie,  as  they  left  the  table.  "Will 
you  walk  with  me  through  the  rose  garden,  by 
moonlight  ?" 

"Except  that  there  is  no  rose  garden  and  there 
is  no  moon,  your  invitation  is  delightful,  and  is 
accepted,"  murmured  the  girl. 

"That  being  the  case,  stroll  with  me  on  the  south 
pike,"  begged  Tressidar. 

"This  popularity  will  turn  her  head,  gentlemen," 
warned  Vera,  coming  up  behind  them ;  "remember 
she  is  an  heiress  and  not  accustomed  to  masculine 
attention." 

Tressidar  winced.  In  spite  of  all  this  badinage 
he  had  decided  to  ask  Leslie  to  marry  him  before 
leaving  Deschenes,  and  it  was  a  positive  proof  of 
his  love  for  her,  that  he  felt  his  inability  to  speak 
the  committing  words.  He  read  in  this  hesitancy 
— embarrassment,  a  depth  of  sentiment,  inexperi- 
enced in  any  previous  attachment.  It  was  not  al- 
together that,  however.  It  was  an  uncertainty  as 
to  the  exact  state  of  Leslie's  feeling  for  him.  Every 
few  days  his  point  of  view  changed ;  first  he  fancied 
she  cared,  then,  as  on  the  day  he  asked  permission 
to  hold  her  hands,  she  caused  him  to  veer  to  the 
opposite  opinion.    He  compared  her  manner  toward 


120 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


\l  * 


him  with  that  toward  Crowley  or  the  Count,  whom 
he  instinctively  detested,  and  could  not  honestly 
discern  much  difference.  He  had  proven  to  him- 
self that  life  without  whiskey  was  bearable,  for 
since  being  at  Deschene  he  had  only  sipped  mod- 
estly of  whatever  liquid  refreshment  was  offered 
save  once,  and  altogether  in  spite  of  a  very  limited 
allowance  owing  to  Sir  Anthony's  protracted  dis- 
pleasure, Tressidar  gazed  upon  a  rather  attractive 
outlook. 

Mrs.  Stearns'  allusion  to  Leslie's  finances,  under 
the  circumstances,  grated  uncomfortably,  and  again 
he  seemed  balked  upon  the  threshold  of  an  auspi- 
cious opening. 

"Come  outside  with  me,"  the  Count  was  saying 
earnestly,  "we  must  continue  our  discussion  about 
that  book,  you  know." 

"Miss  Loring  has  already  promised  me  this  hour 
after  dinner  dedicated  to  strolls  and  confidences. 
Discussions  of  books  must  wait  a  more  practical 
season." 

"Is  it  so?"  the  Count  asked,  turning  to  Leslie, 
visibly  unwilling  to  be  dismissed  by  the  English- 
man. And  Leslie  not  wishing  to  make  things  un- 
comfortable, evaded  the  question  slightly,  and  said : 

"Yes,  I  am  going  for  a  walk  with  Mr.  Tressi- 
dar." 

"That  was  very  good  of  you,"  Algy  began,  when 
the  two  had  passed  beyond  the  Count's  sinister 
glance.    "I  don't  like  that  fellow." 

"I  do." 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


121 


"All  the  more  reason  for  me  to  repeat,  with  em- 
phasis, I  don't  like  the  fellow." 

"How  prejudiced!    Isn't  that  sunset  glorious?" 

"That's  not  the  sunset,  it  is  merely  the  reflection. 
Accuracy  is  out  of  your  line,  isn't  it  ?" 

"I  can  take  lessons  from  Margaret,"  murmured 
Leslie  meekly. 

"Heaven  forbid,"  ejaculated  her  companion  fer- 
vently. "You  couldn't  be  improved"— he  scruti- 
nized her  carefully— "unless— unless,"  he  faltered, 
seeing  laughter  in  her  eyes,  "you  had  dark  hair." 

"Oh,"  she  cried  indignantly.  "Oh,  you  horrid, 
English  boy!  My  hair,  all  my  own,  not  a  peroxide 
strand,  and  you  would  like  it  black!  I  don't  care 
for  you." 

"How  amusing  you  look,  angry,"  teased  the  man. 

"I  am  not  angry,"  Leslie  returned  instantly,  "I 
am  appalled  at  your  lack  of  artistic  taste.  Why, 
with  black  hair,  do  you  know  that  I  am  not  unlike 
Angelique  Brabazon." 

"Impossible!" 

"It's  true !  And  according  to  photographs  I  look 
even  more  like  her  elder  sister — who  by  the  way 
has  gone  on  the  stage,  and  sails  in  a  few  days. 
Perhaps  that  is  why  little  Thomas  was  precipitous 
(the  baby)  for  Angelique  must  leave  to-morrow  or 
the  day  after,  to  bid  her  bon  voyage.  She  goes 
to  France,  I  believe." 

Their  conversation  drifted  along  personal  lines, 
Tressidar  endeavoring  valiantly  to  pave  the  ,  ay 
for  himself.     He  wondered  anxiously  whether  or 


122 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


M 


ij. 


r 


not  Leslie  was  conscious  of  his  nervousness,  and 
inwardly  cursed  himself  for  a  mawkish  fool. 

"Do  you  remember  our  conversation  about  men 
marrying  their  inferiors?"  he  asked  presently. 

"Perfectly,"  answered  the  girl.  "We  never  ar- 
rived at  a  very  satisfactory  conclusion,  did  we?" 

"I  think  not,  but  that  was  your  fault  for  switch- 
ing me  off  to  actresses.  I  want  to  go  back  to  that 
subject  and  ask  you  about  something  you  said." 

"Well?" 

"You  said  you  wondered  whether  men  ever  loved 
women,  did  you  not?" 

"I  believe  so." 

"Well,  what  did  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"I  think  I  meant  something  like  this:  do  men 
ever  give  as  much  as  they  get?  Do  you  realize 
what  a  woman  sacrifices  when  she  loves?  It  is 
not  an  episode  with  her — it  is  her  life.  Do  you 
know  ]\Ir.s.  Browning's  poem  on  that  theme?" 

"No,  but  never  mind  Mrs.  Browning,  just  now; 
I  want  to  hear  Miss  Loring — Leslie — on  that 
theme." 

Had  the  name  slipped  out  inadvertantly,  or  had 
it  even  been  spoken  naturally,  there  would  not  have 
been  that  deep  significance  which  made  Leslie  trem- 
ble. The  hesitation  alone  was  potent,  added  to  that 
the  tone,  caressing,  tender,  conveyed  more  than  a 
mad  declaration  would  have  done. 

So  Leslie,  not  being  quite  sure  of  herself,  drew 
in  her  sails. 


1^  I 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


123 


"Oh,  I  can't  pit  myself  against  Mrs.  Browning," 
she  said,  turning  back  toward  the  house. 

"Don't  go,  yet,"  urged  Algy,  taking  a  step  for- 
ward but  not  touching  her.  "Tell  me,  do  you 
think  you  have  a  large  capacity  for  loving?" 

"How  material  tliat  sounds,"  she  laughed,  "some- 
thing like  a  gaping  cavern,  into  which  one  throws, 
lonely  young  creatures,  pining  for  some  one  to 
love  them." 

"Oh,  be  serious,  Leslie — I  intend  to  call  you  Les- 
lie, now,  do  you  mind?"  Then,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  he  continued,  "Do  you  think  you 
could  love  some  one  who  was  your  inferior,  who 
was  not  really  fit  to  touch  you,  who  could  bring 
you  nothing  but  a  properly  repentant  heart,  and  a 
desire  to  prove  worthy  of  you?" 

And  because  Leslie  feared  that  he  would  find 
her  too  easy  a  quarry,  siie  encased  herself  in  the 
strongest  armour  through  which  passion  has  to 
pierce — humor. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  love  like  that?" 

"Without  the  daddow  of  a  shout!"  she  answered 
solemnly. 

In  spite  of  the  glorious  sunset,  toward  daybreak 
menacing  clouds  rolled  across  the  sky  and  sheets 
of  lightning  sliot  luridly  against  an  inky  back 
ground.  The  guests  had  all  retired — at  least,  they 
had  gone  to  their  rooms  quite  early — the  intense 
sultriness  being  most  trying.  Leslie  slept  soundly, 
dreaming  of  the  Count's  words  to  Tressidar  and 
herself  when  they  came  back  to  the  verandah.    She 


124 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


I'ti 

( 
\ 


■:    ! 

•  ■  i 

J' 


I& 


saw  again  his  triumphant  manner  after  leading  the 
conversation  to  the  proper  point,  as  he  said: 

"I  fancy  you  haf  missed  dose  congenial  little  sup- 
pers at  Sherry's.    Eh,  mon  ami  ?" 

"What  suppers?"  asked  Vera. 

"Ah,  but  Tressidar,  here,  knows  ze  poetry  of 
food!"  The  Count  raised  reverend  hands  to  the 
God  of  Gluttony,  and  continued  rapidly,  "twas  ze 
night  of  ze  day  when  you  haf  invite  me  here,  dear 
lady,  I  join  my  frien'  Tressidar  and  Bryce — the 
young — how  do  you  say — honeymoon,  with  such 
piquante  ladies  of  the  Florodora,  at  Sherry's.  Me, 
I  was  not  of  ze  party,  but  my  good  frien',  here, 
he  see  my  desolation  and  he  say,  another  chair  for 
ze  Count,  gargon,  and  another  one  for  the  lady — 
for  surely  the  Floradora  can  spare  another  lady, 
eh  Fanchette?  he  say,  turning  to  Mademoiselle. 
An',  oh,  ze  supper,  Madame!  It  remin'  me  of  a 
petite  cafe  at  my  home — in  ze  beloved  Paris."  The 
dream  became  confused,  Tressidar  and  the  Count 
seemed  to  be  struggling  over  an  object  lying  on 
the  floor,  and  when  she,  unnoticed  by  them,  stooped 
to  pick  it  up,  she  found  it  was  a  black  wig.  There 
was  a  great  noise  in  the  restaurant,  a  loud  boom- 
ing, then  all  the  lights  flared  up  with  dazzling  bril- 
liance, and  she  awoke. 

Something  had  happened,  but  for  a  moment  she 
was  too  stupid  to  realize  what  it  was.  Then,  sud- 
denly, the  truth  dawned  upon  her — the  house  had 
been  struck  by  lightning  and  was  burning. 

"Cecileyl"  she  called,  before  remembering  that 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


125 


the  servants'  quarters  were  in  an  entirely  different 
part  of  the  house.  The  thunder  was  deafening  and 
the  roar  of  the  wind  drowned  every  other  sound. 

Hurriedly  putting  on  her  nearest  garment,  Leslie 
opened  the  door  and  started  through  the  smoke- 
filled  corridor. 

"Vera!  Don  I"  she  screamed,  "the  house  is  on 
fire— Fire!" 

A  man's  voice  answered : 

"Where  are  you?" 

"Here,"  Leslie  called,  tearing  at  the  kid  curlers 
which  framed  her  face.  "Go  back  to  the  others 
at  once,  they  may  be  choked  or  asleep !  Rouse  every 
one  as  you  go  1    I  am  all  right." 

It  was  Tressidar. 

"I  am  a  fright,"  she  thought,  panic-stricken.    "If 

he  ever  sees  me  now "  she  rushed  into  her 

room,  all  sense  of  confusion  gone,  and  slipped  into 
a  few  articles  of  clothing,  with  wonderful  rapidity. 
She  laughed  excitedly  to  herself  as  she  ran  the 
comb  through  her  hair  and  pinned  it  back  with  a 
large  gold  barette,  and  she  slipped  Iier  orange  stick 
into  the  pocket  of  her  kimona,  before  thinking  of 
what  few  valuables  she  wished  to  take.  The  smoke 
blinded  and  choked  her,  though  as  yet  no  flames 
were  visible,  and  it  was  not  until  Tressidar  returned 
that  she  knew  where  the  othe-s  were. 

"Come,"  commanded  the  man,  taking  her  forcibly 
in  his  arms,  "you  will  strangle." 

"If  the  rain  would  only  come,"  she  gasped.  "I 
know  I  have  forgotten  something  important." 


126 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


?^1 


I  =s      'I    . 

,5 '  5    i 


"Your  manicure  set,"  suggested  Algy,  groping 
his  way  down  the  stairs. 

Vera  pounced  on  them  as  they  reached  the 
grounds  and  shook  Leshe. 

"Where  have  you  been/"  she  demanded  angrily, 
"I  have  been  frantic,  thinking  perhaps  you  were 

hurt." 

"She  was  collecting  her  things,"  said  Algy,  as 
in  commendation  of  such  presence  of  mind.  "Now 
I  am  going  to  help.  Are  the  servants  all  out?"  he 
called  over  his  shoulder. 

"I  think  so,"  shouted  Vera  between  her  hands, 
"Morton  will  see  to  them." 

"We  should  help,"  said  Leslie,  with  her  eyes  on 
the  roof.  "I  can  pump  at  any  rate,  while  the  men 
carry  buckets  up  and  down." 

The  llames  had  not  made  appalling  headway,  al- 
though the  wind  was  very  high.  Don  Crowley  had 
carried  several  pieces  of  hose  to  the  roof  the  in- 
stant the  house  was  struck,  and  he  and  Burnley 
worked  like  demons.  But  the  smoke  was  blinding, 
choking  in  its  density. 

The  forms  of  the  men  on  the  roof  silhouetted 
against  the  fitful  tlames,  looked  weird  and  unreal. 
Every  now  and  then  their  shouts  of  warning  or 
command  could  be  heard  by  the  watchers  below. 
But  for  the  most  part  the  scene  was  pantomimic, 
with  only  the  deafening  crashes  of  thunder,  and 
shrieking  of  wind  to  off-set  the  silence. 

Vera  was  pluckiness  itself. 


•   I  i 


f  f 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


127 


"Let  the  house  go,"  she  shouted  a  dozen  times 
futilely,  "I  want  you  to  come  down  here." 

The  servants  were  moving  out  everything  get-at- 
able,  and  two  of  the  men  had  even  ventured  on  the 
second  floor,  but  were  driven  back.  With  a  change 
in  the  wind  the  fire  m  liciously  spread,  running 
swiftly  down  the  eaves  (  *  the  house. 

"It  is  no  use,"  cried  Vtr-i,  again.  "George,  don't 
you  hear  me,  come  down !" 

Suddenly  Angelique,  who  had  been  sobbing 
childishly,  with  her  head  against  Elsie  Davies,  ut- 
tered a  wild  shriek,  and  flung  up  her  hands. 

•*Mon  Dieu,"  she  cried,  "/'at  onbliee  ma  bague 
d'or!"  then  promptly  had  hysterics. 

Leslie  shook  her  roughly,  "Stop  that,  and  tell  me 
w'here  vou  put  it,"  she  demanded,  speaking  rapidly 
in  French. 

Incoherently  Angelique  poured  forth  a  volume 
of  words,  but  Leslie  gathered  some  information 
from  the  disjointed  sentences.  It  seemed  that  Tom 
had  given  her  a  ring  of  his  own,  which  was  much 
too  large,  and  the  girl,  sentimentally  put  it  under 
her  pillow.  When  Vera,  warned  by  Burnley,  that 
the  house  had  been  struck,  sent  Tressidar  to  tell 
her,  she  flew  excitedly  to  the  door  and  downstairs, 
precisely  as  she  had  leapt  from  her  bed. 

Elsie  Davies  and  Margaret  had  made  more 
thoughtful  provision  for  themselves,  so  that  they 
were  able  to  lend  her  clothes  after  they  arrived 
upon  the  scene.  Don  Crowley,  Burnley,  and  Tom 
Edge,   were  the  first  on  the  roof.     The    ^ount 


128 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


i  f 


■t '  v. 
f  U    I 


undertook  to  rouse  the  servants  and  Tressidar  self- 
ishly, insisted  upon  "helping  Leslie." 

"She  doesn't  need  any  more  help,"  Burnley  had 
called,  almost  angrily.  "Stay  here,  and  get  a 
blanket." 

"Be  back  directly,"  called  the  Englishman,  swing- 
ing over  the  side  of  the  roof  with  monkey-like  agil- 
ity. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  hardly  realized  what 
he  was  doing.  Leslie's  yielding  form  held  so  close 
against  his  own  liad  caused  him  such  an  intensity 
of  emotion  as  he  had  never  known.  He  had  passed 
through  so  many  emotions,  indeed,  in  such  a  short 
time,  that  he  was  almost  irresponsible  for  his  ac- 
tions. First  his  firm  determination  to  ask  the  girl 
to  marry  him.  her  parrying  of  him,  his  blinding 
rage  at  the  Count's  poor  scheme  for  revenge,  his 
excitement  when  the  alarm  was  given,  and  again 
Leslie,  Leslie,  always  Leslie. 

"Mr.  Tressidar,"  cried  Vera  Stearns,  as  he 
jumped  from  a  low-hanging  branch  to  the  ground, 
"quick,  Leslie  has  gone  into  the  house — into  Angle's 
room.  \Vq  could  not  prevent  her,"  she  called  after 
him,  as  with  an  oath  he  bounded  past  the  now  ter- 
rified women,  up  the  steps  of  the  verandah,  where 
the  flames  were  making  headway. 

"Leslie,"  he  shouted,  "Leslie!" 
^  A  flash  of  lightning  illumined  the  stairway  par- 
tially, that  is  Algy  saw  the  thick  smoke  which  had 
settled  so  densely  over  everything— in  the  blackness 
vof  a  moment  ago,  he  had  only  felt  it. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


129 


"Leslie,"  he  coughed ;  "answer  me !" 

From  the  room  next  Vera's  which  Angelique 
had  occupied,  an  object  crawled  on  all  fours  and 
touched  the  man's  knees,  weakly. 

Swiftly  he  stooped  and  gathered  the  girl  in  his 
arms,  burying  his  face  in  the  tangled  masses  of  her 
hair. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  he  breathed,  stumbling  down 
the  stairs. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  let  her  head  fall  back 
against  his  breast,  one  arm  hung  loosely  across  his 
shoulders,  and  he  thought  she  had  fainted.  But 
as  he  reached  the  door,  she  moved  slightly  in  his 
arms,  and  gasped : 

"Thank  God,  there  is  the  rain!" 

Algy  leaned  panting  against  one  of  the  pillars  of 
the  verandah,  breathing,  it  seemed,  to  him  for  the 
first  time  in  weeks.  The  wind  had  changed  and 
was  blowing  the  smoke  in  clouds  away  from  them, 
toward  the  buildings  in  the  rear  of  the  house. 

"Put  me  down,"  whispered  Leslie. 

"I  love  you,"  murmured  the  man,  seeking  her 
lips.     "Kiss  me,  darling,  kiss  me!" 

The  girl  moved  her  head  restlessly  and  made  a 
feeble  struggle.     It  was  sufficient. 

"Don't  move  away  from  me!"  Algy  cried 
hoarsely.  "You  can't — you  can't  ever  get  away 
from  me  again.  God,  how  I  have  wanted  you,"  he 
went  on  his  lips  full  on  hers.  "How  I  want  you, 
want  you !" 

She  lay  passive,  stunned  by  his  vehemence,  his 


I30 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


passion.  Was  this  the  moment  of  which  she  had 
dreamed  ? 

"Speak  to  me,  dearest,"  he  was  pleading,  "tell 
me  that  you  love  me." 

Out  of  the  darkness  a  form  emerged,  and  the 
Count's  voice  sounded  close  at  hand. 

"Ah,  mes  amis,  you  are  here,"  he  said  suavely. 
"Madame  has  sent  me  to  fin'  you,  but  I  see  you  are 
quite  safe,  so  au  revoir,"  he  waved  his  hand  airily 
— though  they  did  not  see — and  was  gone. 

"Come,"  said  Leslie,  "I  must  go  to  Angelique— 
they  will  all  be  worried." 

"Here  is  your  ring,  cherie — now  hush,  every- 
body. I  am  not  hurt,  and  Mr.  Tressidar  may  pride 
himself  upon  a  noble  deed  of  heroism  in  sav- 
mg 

"The  heiress,"  interposed  the  Count,  with  a  clever 
imitation  of  a  laugh. 

"The  heiress,"  repeated  Leslie  slowly,  "from 
the  hungry  flames." 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu,  but  you  are  une  ange,  mignon," 
cried  Angelique  through  tears.  "How  can  I  ever 
thank  you?" 

"Here  are  your  beads,  too,  and  I  wanted  to  bring 
you  some  clothes,  but  my  breath  gave  out." 

"The  idea !  Que  vous  etes  stupide,  Leslie !  How- 
ever," she  said,  casting  a  regretful  look  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  house  from  their  temporary  quar- 
ters, "I  wish  I  had  my  beaut-iful  'at,  ze  one  wis 
all  ze  feazhers — the  feazhers  of  ze  'usband  of  ze 
'en!" 


f       I 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


131 


CHAPTER  XV. 


Taking  all  in  all,  the  damage  done  to  Deschencs 
was  comparatively  slight.  Of  course,  repairs  had 
to  be  made  at  once,  so  the  house  party  was  obliged 
to  dissolve.  Angelique  sailed  from  Quebec  with 
her  sister  Celeste  for  Havre  in  that  week,  Elsie 
Davies  went  to  friends  on  the  St.  Lawrence,  Mar- 
garet Crowley  and  her  mother  left  for  the  coun- 
try shortly  afterward,  and  Leslie  finally  accepted 
Miss  Polly's  invitation,  given  so  often  through  the 
last  month,  and  decided  to  spend  a  fortnight  with 
the  Bryces.  The  Crowleys  also  wanted  her,  but 
instinctively  she  felt  that  they  would  not  ask  Tres- 
sidar,  and  she  wanted  to  follow  up  the  advantage 
gained  while  at  Vera  Stearns', 

On  the  morning  after  the  fire  she  had  not  seen 
him  alone,  for  naturally  there  was  great  confusion 
about  the  place,  people  driving  over  from  all  di- 
rections to  see  the  result  of  the  fire  and  offer  as- 
sistance, the  guests  leaving  as  they  got  their  be- 
longings sorted,  and  Vera  between  laughter  and 
tears  urging  them  to  stay  and  help  shingle  the  roof, 
then  in  the  next  breath  begging  them  to  go  and 
organize  a  benefit  for  her,  sending  her  daily  ham- 
pers from  some  modest  "Chop  House." 


132 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


li 


m 


Is!      ' 


f'S 


Leslie  left  with  the  Crowleys,  and  Tressidar  was 
to  come  up  on  a  later  train  with  George  Burnley. 
The  Count  had  gone  earlier  with  Tom  and  Ange- 
lique. 

Arrived  at  the  Bryce's  Leslie  tried  to  forget  her- 
self and  her  own  affairs,  and  devote  her  entire  time 
and  attention  to  the  dear  old  ladies  of  whom  she 
was  so  fond. 

Their  main  topic  of  conversation  was  as  usual 
Walter;  it  was  tragic  to  hear  their  loving  excuses 
for  him.  Miss  Polly  would  tell  Leslie  how  im- 
proved the  dear  boy  was,  how  his  marriage  had  re- 
formed him;  ten  minutes  afterward  Miss  Libby 
would  tell  her  how  hard  it  must  be  for  a  boy  of 
Walter's  restless,  convivial  temperament  to  settle 
down,  and  how  unfortunate  it  was  that  Clara  was 
already  in  too  delicate  a  condition  to  go  out  a  great 
deal  with  him. 

"It  may  be  the  making  of  him,  though,"  she 
added  hopefully,  "a  child  has  such  a  loving,  re- 
straining influence." 

"I  don't  care  for  'settling  down'  myself,"  Leslie 
answered,  smiling;  "for  a  cup  of  coffee  it  seems 
only  right  and  proper,  but  a  person  should  have  a 
few  grounds  floating  near  the  surface,  in  my  opin- 
ion." 

"Well,  dear,  of  course  your  views  are  very  good, 
.and  no  doubt  quite  adequate  to  fit  your  needs,  but 
I  would  like  to  see  Walter  break  away  from  those 
associates  who  lead  him  into  temptation.  You  see 
Oara  is  easily  affected  by  any — any — excitement" 


\* 


I  I 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


133 


^— she  found  the  word  triumphantly — "on  his  part." 

"But  the  club  men  don't  lead  him  into  tempta- 
tion," objected  Leslie,  "Mathie  was  so  careful  to 
warn  them." 

"Oh,  no,  dear,  the  club  is  a  very  good  thing  for 
Walter,  certainly.  It  seems  to  be  this  Englishman 
who  is  the  cause  of  his  present  trouble." 

"What  Englishman?"'  Leslie  asked  the  question 
slowly.  She  already  knew  the  answer,  but  felt  a 
morbid  longing  to  hear  the  name  from  Miss  Libby's 
innocent  lips.  Sitting  there  in  the  half-darkened 
library  with  a  piece  of  fine  embroidery  in  her  hand, 
Leslie  raised  her  eyes  to  Miss  Libby's  face,  bit  off 
,a  thread,  and  smoothed  out  her  work,  all  before 
asking. 

"What  Englishman?" 

"Why,  that  Mr.  Tressidar,"  replied  the  younger 
Miss  Bryce,  unconsciously  qualifying  Algy  by 
"that."  "He  is  a  frightful  drunkard,  my  dear,  such 
a  harmful  companion  for  our  Walter." 

It  seemed  as  though  two  persons  sprang  into 
birth  in  her  brain  as  Leslie  listened  to  Miss  Libby's 
lowered  voice.  One  said  tragically,  hopelessly :  "A 
drunkard,"  and  the  other  laughed  a  tender  little  note 
of  pity,  and  said :  "A  man  who  drinks  a  glass  of 
ale  at  dinner  with  regularity  and  with  enjoyment 
would,  in  Miss  Libby's  eyes,  be — a  drunkard." 

Suddenly  she  realized  that  the  little  aunt  was 
speaking : 

"At  first  he  used  to  telephone  Walter  to  go  out 
with  him,  then — then,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Walter 


;k  . 


i  • 


1  ■  • 

v,''> 


134 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


used  to  go  without  being  asked.    We  always  know 

when  he  is  with  Tressidar  because "  a  painful 

red  crept  into  the  delicate  cheeks,  and  she  seemed 
to  regret  the  fulness  of  her  confidence. 

"Because  he  is  worse,  then  ?"  suggested  Leslie. 
Miss  Libby  nodded. 

"He  usually  tells  Clara,  any\vay,"  she  continued, 
after  a  pause,  "he  is  never  as  bad  as  that  other  man, 
he  says;  and,  oh,  my  dear,  sometimes  even  the 
women  are — are — drunk."  Her  voice  sunk  to  a 
whisper,  and  two  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

"Dear  Miss  Libby,"  cried  Leslie,  "don't  think 
about  it  so  seriously.  Walter  is  only  a  boy,  and — 
and  I  am  sure  Mr.  Tressidar  will  be  different  after 
this.     I  myself  will  ask  him." 

Before  Miss  Libby  could  protest  Clara  Bryce 
entered  the  room,  and  the  conversation  was  imme- 
diately turned  along  different  channels.  It  was  keen 
torture,  requiring  the  utmost  self-restraint  and  dis- 
cipline for  Leslie  to  sit  an  hour  with  the  two  of  them 
and  listen  to  their  platitudes  and  their  constant  al- 
lusions to  Walter  and  his  prospects.  She  had  rather 
expected  Algy  to  send  her  some  word  or  come  to 
see  her  during  the  afternoon  or  evening,  but  when 
he  did  not  make  the  effort,  she  accepted  an  invita- 
tion from  Count  de  Vinville — just  why  she  did  not 
even  acknowledge  to  herself.  While  dressing  for 
dinner  she  thought  over  Miss  Libby's  words,  and 
looked  herself  squarely,  very  squarely,  in  the  eye. 

"I  love  Algy  Tressidar,"  she  told  her  own  image 
in  the  mirror.    "There,  I  have  said  it!    I  am  going 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


135 


to  marry  him,  but  he  is  f]foing  to  want  to  marry  me. 
He  does  not  know  that  just  yet,  but  I  believe  he 
will,  if  I  can  only  keep  him  away  from  other  attrac- 
tions, such  as  midnight  suppers  and  the  ladies  of 
t  le  Florodora." 

She  knew  what  kind  of  a  man  he  was  at  last ;  she 
realized  now  the  reason  for  all  the  broken  engage- 
ments, the  reason  he  was  so  unenthusiastic  about 
morning  jaunts  of  any  kind,  for  she  had  seen  Clar- 
ence Stearns — Vera's  husband— often  during  the 
last  year  of  his  life. 

"How  could  you  marry  him?"  she  had  asked 
Vera.     "Did  you  know  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  knew  he  drank,"  she  had  replied,  "but 
I  thought  he  would  want  to  stop,  which  was  the 
same  thing  to  me  as  stopping,  and,  anyway,  I  didn't 
care  very  much.  Father  said  he  was  a  fine  fellow, 
and  I  was  pleased  to  think  I  had  the  catch  of  that 
season  and  many  other  seasons  at  my  beck  and  call. 
I'm  not  sorry,"  she  had  added. 

But  Vera  was  so  different.  Alike  incapable  of 
any  great  emotion — love,  hate,  sorrow — of  course 
it  did  not  matter.  Naturally  she  did  not  prefer  to 
have  Mr.  Stearns  come  into  the  drawing-room  in 
such  a  condition  as  Walt'  r  Bryce  had  the  night  of 
her  reception,  but  if  he  did  there  was  always  some 
one  on  whom  she  could  depend  to  help  her  make 
the  best  of  it,  and,  at  least,  the  man  was  a  gentle- 
man. 

Finally,  after  concentrated  thought  and  a  waver- 
ing once  or  twice,  Leslie  decided  that  any  one  of 


136 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


LI 

it  i 


Tressidar's  make-up  could  stop  if  he  had  the  de- 
sire, if  he  had  an  object  of  sufficient  interest  to 
make  him  want  to  reform.  All  great  reforms  have 
come  through  women,  she  argued,  why  not  this 
one? 

The  Count  was  not  averse  to  speak  about  "his 
frien',"  but  as  often  as  possible  Leslie  led  him  away 
from  the  topic,  it  savored  to  her  of  eavesdi  jppingr 
besides,  she  could  not  tell  just  how  much  dependence 
to  place  upon  the  man's  remarks. 

"You  were  cruel  to  nie  at  Deschenes,"  he  said 
softly,  speaking  in  French.  "What  have  I  done  to 
make  you  change  toward  me?" 

"I  have  not  changed,"  Leslie  answered,  smiling 
ever  so  little.  "They  say  that  when  one  finds  an- 
other changed,  the  change  is  due  to  oneself." 

They  were  sitting  at  a  small  table  in  a  corner 
somewhat  out  of  the  line  of  observation  from  the 
careless  throng  of  Roof  Gardeners. 

Leonard  de  Vinville  hesitated  a  fraction  of  a  sec- 
ond, then  spoke  quietly,  forcefully  for  him,  with  a 
total  absence  of  the  birdlike,  staccato  jerks  which 
usually  characterized  his  speech  and  actions. 

"You  are  right,  Mile.  Leslie,  I  have  changed  in 
the  great,  wonderful  way,  which  only  comes  to  a 
man  once.  I  see  everything  differently,  more  beau- 
tifully; I,  myself,  am  radiating  a  power,  a  force,  a 
strength,  I  never  knew  was  in  me."  lie  laid  his 
small  white  hand  upon  his  breast,  and  leaned  across 
the  table.  "It  is  you  who  have  made  the  change, 
it  is  all  for  you ;  I  can  make  myself  what  I  please — 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


137 


what  you  please.  Leslie,  I  love  you.  I  make  you 
an  offer  of  marriage!" 

The  music  ceased,  and  Leslie,  sitting  opposite 
the  stage,  saw  a  repulsive  figure  lurch  to  the  ct  :re 
of  it.  The  man's  nose  was  a  brilliant  crimson,  his 
mouth  hung  idiotically  open,  his  eyes,  half  closed 
and  crossed,  leered  odiously.  He  began  speaking 
thickly.  She  reminded  herself  of  Elsie  Venner, 
only  instead  of  snakes  she  attracted  drunkards. 
Leslie  shuddered. 

"Let  us  go,"  she  said,  rising. 

"You  have  not  answered  me,"  murmured  her 
companion,  as  they  reached  the  street. 

"Will  you  walk  a  little?"  asked  the  girl.  "I 
should  like  it.  I  am  sorry,  bitterly  sorry,"  she  con- 
tinued presently,  "to  hurt  you,  but  I  can't  marry 
you.  Count  de  Vinville.  If  I  have  given  you  any 
reason,  any  encouragement,  to  cause  you  to  speak 
as  you  have,  please  forgive  me.  I  seem  to  have  an 
unfortunate  manner,"  she  spoke  almost  bitterly,  "in 
that  I  am  not  able  to  be  merely  nice  to  a  person 
without  misleading  him."  She  was  thinking  par- 
ticularly of  Don,  whose  silently  sorrowful  eyes  had 
haunted  her  uncomfortably  during  the  days  at  De- 
schenes.     He  had  seemed  to  be  sorry  for  her. 

The  Count  behaved  like  a  man,  and  at  this  mo- 
ment Leslie  liked  him  immensely.  He  seemed  to 
drop  dramatics,  and  was  nothing  more  than  a  griev- 
ously disappointed  lover. 

"I  suppose  I  know  women  well  enough  to  under- 
stand that  your  'no'  means  just  that,  only  I  can't 


I 


138 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


ii  y 


Iti 


give  you  up  so  easily,  mon  adorSe.  Of  course  it 
may  mean  nothing  to  you,  but  I  want  to  ttU  you 
that  I  am  not  like  so  many  of  my  countrymen  for 
whom  I  blush,  an  impecunious  fortune  seeker.  Mrs. 
Stearns*  words,  though  spoken  in  jest  last  night  at 
her  charming  home,  stung.  I  have  estates  which 
are  well  kept  up.  Had  you  not  a  centime  I  would 
ask  you  just  the  same.  Leslie,  will  you  marry  me? 
Ah,  don't  speak,  I  know  that  makes  no  difference— 
only  I  had  to  tell  you." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Leslie  again,  "so  sorry." 

"It  might  come,"  suggested  the  Count,  a  little 
brokenly. 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "I  suppose  you  will 
go  away,  like  they  all  do,  and  I  will  have  lost  an- 
other friend." 

"Ah,  but  no,"  De  Vinville  exclaimed  vehemently, 
"you  do  not  knozv  how  I  love  you.  I  shall  stay,  and 
I  shall  be  your  friend  always,  always — if  you  will 
let  me." 

"Thank  you,"  answered  Leslie  simply.  "Thank 
you,  and  good  night." 


"A  gentleman  called  you  up,  my  dear,"  whispered 
Miss  Polly,  trying  to  persuade  herself  that  perhaps 
Miss  Libby  and  Clara  were  asleep;  whereas  she 
knew  that  they,  too,  like  herself,  were  tossing  rest- 
lessly about,  waiting  for  Walter's  return. 

"Who  was  it—Don?" 

"I  think  not,  for  Don  would  have  told  me,  and 


■y 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


139 


this  person  would  give  neither  his  name,  message. 
or  number.    Walter  is  out,"  she  added,  with  piti- 
ful bravery.     "I  think  that  Mr.  Trcssidar  must  have 
called  him.     The  'phone  rang  soon  after  your  friend 
had  finished." 

Leslie  took  her  hat  off  and  ran  her  hand  through 
her  hair  before  asking : 

"Did  you  say  where  I  had  gone,  and  with  whom?" 

And  Miss  Polly,  fearing  she  had  bored  her  guest 
by  such  constant  references  to  Walter,  answered  the 
question  almost  loquaciously.  She  had  told  the  gen- 
tleman all  she  knew  of  Leslie's  whereabouts,  that  she 
had  gone,  not  to  the  Crowley's  or  Mrs.  Steams',  as 
he  supposed,  but  to  the  Roof  Garden — yes,  she  re- 
membered saying  she  had  gone  with  Count  de  Vin- 
ville,  was  she  right?" 

Leslie  kissed  the  lovable  Miss  Polly  good  night, 
and  went  to  her  room.  She  was  glad  to  think  that 
Algy  had  tried  to  see  her,  and  that  joy  almost  coun- 
terbalanced the  fearful  realization  of  what  Algy's 
alternative  meant.  He  would  have  his  way,  or  he 
would  drink.  What  a  sword  to  hold  over  her,  her ! 
Leslie,  the  care-free,  the  sole  mistress  of  herself, 
to  barter  herself  for  a  little  love  and  much  misery — 
how  much  she  could  not  tell ! 

Margaret  Crowley  sat  with  her  in  an  attitude  of 
obvious  uneasiness,  perhaps  ten  days  after  that 
night. 

"Won't  you  change  your  mind,  and  come?"  she 
urged  for  the  fiftieth  time. 

"No,  dear,  thank  you,  I  don't  believe  I  can  go 


If  ^ 

Iff  V 


140 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


I  J. 


with  you  to-morrow.  Perhaps  later  in  the  summer 
I  may  run  clown,  if  you  will  have  me." 

Margaret  looked  hopelessly  at  the  slight  form 
standing  now  beside  an  open  window.  The  air  was 
heavy  and  sultry,  making  her  long  for  space,  free- 
dom, and  purity  of  atmosphere.  Leslie  was  puzzling 
her  somewhat,  and  she  wanted  to  put  her  suspicions 
to  rest. 

"Where  are  you  going,  after  leaving  Miss 
Polly?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  was  the  evasive  answer. 

"Edgeville,     maybe,     the    Adirondacks "    she 

shrugged  her  shoulders.  "You  know  how  ridicu- 
lously indefinite  I  am,  Margaret,  don't  tease,  there's 
a  dear." 

"You  are  the  least  indefinite  person  I  know," 
complained  the  other;  "there  lies  the  whole  trouble, 
I  don't  want  to  force  your  confidence,  Leslie,  but 
won't  you  tell  me  what  has  come  over  you  lately  ?" 

"Dear  me,"  sighed  Leslie,  "who  would  have 
thought  that  my  manner  would  affect  every  one  so 
seriously !" 

"Then  others  have  noticed  it?"  asked  Margaret 
eagerly,  for  her. 

Leslie  bit  her  tongue,  then  decided  that  Margaret 
might  as  well  know  now  as  any  other  time — might 
as  well  know  something  of  what  had  "changed  her," 
so  she  said : 

"Count  dc  Vinville  asked  me  to  marry  him — and 
I — refused." 

There  was  silence    for   a   moment.     Margaret 


jf  ? 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


141 


Crowley  would  have  given  half  of  her  worldly  pos- 
sessions to  have  been  able  to  throw  aside  her  ha- 
bitual restraint,  to  show  what  she  felt. 

"I  am  glad,  for  you,"  she  heard  herself  saying 
stiffly,  "the  Count  is  very  nice,  I  am  sure ;  and  it  is 
quite  an  honor,  but,  Leslie,  I  am  clumsy  and  prob- 
ably will  do  as  Don  says,  jump  hard  upon  the  most 
sensitive  spot,  and  hurt." 

"Yes,  Margaret." 

"But  oh,  dearie,  was  it  because  you  cared  for  some 
one  else  ?" 

For  an  instant  Leslie  wavered,  then  she  whis- 
pered : 

"Yes." 

"Oh" — the  voice  was  full  of  panic.  "It  isn't  Mr. 
Tressidar,  Leshe?" 

"It  is  Mr.  Tressidar,  Margaret." 

The  moment  was  dramatic,  and  yet  Leslie  Loring 
for  once  missed  its  theatrical  possibilities.  It  sel- 
dom happens  that  two  women  bare  their  hearts  com- 
pletely to  each  other,  and  it  probably  would  not  have 
occurred  now  had  these  two  been  other  than  the 
staunch  and  tried  friends  they  were. 

They  looked  earnestly  into  one  another's  eyes, 
and,  finding  only  great  love  written  there,  Leslie 
took  out  her  heart  and  laid  it  in  the  palm  of  Mar- 
garet's hand,  that  she  might  watch  it  beat. 

"I  am  sorry,  so  sorry,  that  I  am  going  to  try  to 
tell  you  why.  I,  even  I,  can  see  the  humor  of  tell- 
ing a  woman  that  tlie  man  she  loves  is  not  worthy 
of  her." 


I.  ■: 


ii 


\>'  i 


142 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


Leslie  smiled.     "Is  that  all?" 

"Not  half !  Listen :  All  these  things  I  am  going 
to  tell  you  /  knoTv!  To  begin  with,  Mr.  Tressidar 
was  sent  out  here  because  his  parents  were  ashamed 
to  have  him  at  home.  His  debts  nearly  ruined  his 
father,  and  his  disgraceful  conduct  nearly  broke  his 
mother's  pride.  Since  coming  here  he  has  but  con- 
tinued his  accustomed  mode  of  living,  he  has  drunk 
with  sickening  persistence,  he"— Margaret  stopped, 
it  was  hard  to  speak  of  these  things  at  any  time,  es- 
pecially to  Leslie,  just  now,  "he  has  indulged  him- 
self unstintingly  in  other  ways,  and,  Leslie,  he  can't 

stop!" 

The  clock  ticked  irritatingly ;  a  fly,  having  dis- 
covered some  secret  passage  into  the  house,  flaunted 
his  superior  knowledge  by  buzzing,  insistently, 
around  Leslie's  head.  She  noted  these  things  with 
heightened  sensibilities,  a  keenness  of  perception 
which  almost  hurt.  Yet  to  show  Margaret  that  her 
words  did  not  matter,  she  leaned  close  against  the 
screen,  pretending  to  gaze  intently  at  something  in 
the  street  below.     "He  can't  stop!'' 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  that  until  he  has  tried," 
she  finally  contradicted.  "A  person  can  do  anything 
they  wish,  if  they  wish  it  enough." 

"Yes,"  cried  the  older  woman  triumphantly, 
"there  is  the  point,  he  will  never  wish  enough  to 
stop.  He  wants  a  thing  until  he  gets  it,  then  wants 
something  else.  Oh,  Leslie,  think  what  you  are  do- 
ing !  Why  don't  you  reconsider  poor  Percy  Haslett 
and  marry  him?"  she  asked  desperately. 


iiJM 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


143 


"Pouf !"  Leslie  made  a  moue  of  disgust;  "that 
idiot !  In  just  about  ten  years  he  will  be  bald,  have 
creases  in  his  neck  which  wall  make  it  hang  over  his 
collar,  and  he  will  have  a  round,  fat  stomach.  Not 
much!" 

"Well,  even  the  Count " 

"No,  nor  the  Count,  when  he  gets  tired  of  me  he 
will  make  friends  with  the  children  of  all  the  pretty 
women  as  a  stepping  stone — you  know  the  kind." 

"Oh,  Leslie,  I  wouldn't  say  that  about  him,  even 
though  I  heartily  disapprove  of  international  mar- 
riages.   Clifford  Scott " 

"A  babe  in  his  cradle!  No,  thanks,  Margaret; 
when  I  want  to  adopt  a  child,  it  will  not  be  Clif- 
ford." She  was  excited  and  spoke  a  little  more 
sharply  than  was  intended,  as  she  inquired,  sarcas- 
tically : 

"Are  you  sure  you  have  not  forgotten  anyone  ?" 

A  glance  at  Margaret's  face  brought  quick  realiz- 
ation of  what  she  had  said,  and  tears  of  mortifica- 
tion sprang  in  her  eyes. 

"There  is  one  more  whose  name  I  had  purposely 
refrained  from  mentioning — it  is  Don.  Why  not 
Don,  Leslie?" 

She  looked  straight  into  the  soul  of  Leslie  Lor- 
ing,  and  subterfuge  was  usriess. 

"I  don't  know  why,  God  hears  me,  that  is  the 
truth — I  don't  know  'why,'  /  only  know." 

There  was  another  long  silence. 

"I  have  loved  you  ever  since  you  came  into  the 
room  at  Madame's,  Leslie.     I  loved  my  home  be- 


144 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


cause  it  was  a  place  for  you  to  come.  I  was  glad  I 
had  a  brother  to  be  nice  to  you.  That  was  years  ago, 
and  I  used  to  ache  sometimes  to  think  how,  being 
only  a  day  scholar,  I  could  not  be  with  you  more. 
Later,  when  we  grew  to  womanhood  and  you  still 
were  sweet  to  me,  accepting  my  love  in  its  dumbness, 
I  was  glad  I  had  Don  to  lavish  on  you  all  the  fond- 
ness I  felt  and  could  not  show.  Very  recently  I 
saw  my  cherished  dreams  coming  true,  and  now—' 
now — you  would  give  him  up  for " 

"Don't  say  it,  Margaret,  don't !" 

If  anyone  ever  had  called  Margaret  Crowley  by 
a  nickname,  Leslie  would  have  done  it  now.  She 
would  have  done  anything  to  get  close  to  this  ideal 
creature  whom  she  felt  would  not  understand  by 
reason  of  her  very  ideality.  A  little  more  quietly 
Leslie  spoke. 

"There  was  once  a  time — a  half  minute,  perhaps 
— when  I  thought  of  marrying  Don.  You  don't 
know  how  very  hard  it  is  for  me  to  speak  to  you 
like  this "  she  broke  off,  with  an  appealing  out- 
stretching of  her  hands.  "When  I  tried  to  picture 
myself  happy  with  him,  Margaret,  it  was  farcical. 
I  tried  to  think  of  watching  for  him  to  come  home 
to  dinner,  to  show  him  a  new  gown,  to  plan  a  sum- 
mer's outing — it  was  hopeless.  The  tragic  truth  is, 
dear,  dear  Margaret,  that  /  take  Don  for  granted. 
Ah,  if  you  could  know  the  difference  between  that 
affection  and  this  other  thing  which  is  a  part  of  me, 
for  which  I  live."  She  laughed  a  little.  "I  am  try- 
ing not  to  be  melodramatic." 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


145 


«/ 


*Go  on,  please,"  urged  Margaret,  slowly,  softly. 

"My  first  waking  thought  is  for  A\gy,  a  continu- 
ation of  those  I  have  had  in  my  sleep.  I  dress  think- 
ing of  what  will  please  him,  what  he  will  say  to  me, 
what  I  will  say  to  him.  I  plan  the  long  morning 
so  that  I  may  not  neglect  anything,  and  yet  leave 
room  for  some  thought  of  him.  I  eat  my  lunch 
buoyantly,  joyfully,  excitedly  while  my  heart  is  sing- 
ing loud  paens  of  gladness — ^he  will  soon  be  here. 
I  compare  him  with  the  other  men ;  I  love  his  fastid- 
iousness, his  very  gestures  make  me  dizzy  with  joy  J 
the  dear  way  he  bends  his  head  when  listening  to 
me,  or  asking  me  a  question,  thrills  me  foolishly. 
When  he  ccTies  into  a  room  everything  seems 
changed,  brighter,  happier.  When  he  goes  out  a 
certain  part  of  it  seems  lacking,  and  I  feel  lonely, 
but — I  like  it.  The  night  of  the  fire  he  kissed  me," 
she  forgot  Margaret's  presence,  and  murmured  the 
words  as  though  to  herself,  while  the  older  woman 
gazed,  fascinated — "he  kissed  me,  he  said  he  loved 
me.  With  that  remembrance  nothing  could  hold 
me.  Were  I  married  to  another  man  and  the 
mother  of  his  children;  were  he  or  they  dying  and 
Algy  called  'Come  to  me — I  love  you,'  I  would  go. 
Do  you  hear  me,  Margaret,"  she  ran  to  her  friend 
and  shook  her  gently,  "do  you  hear  me?  /  would 
go!" 

There  was  silence. 

"That  is  love,"  said  Leslie,  deep  in  her  throat. 
Her  eyes  were  almost  black,  "at  least,  that  is  a 
very  small  part  of  it    You  may  think  that  I  am 


■l^ 


It 


»l 


iil^ 


'.   'I  3 

[i  '  F.lJ 

'     :    » t  .     a 


1 


146 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


a  creature  of  impulse  that  I  have  not  weighed  the 
consequences.  If  you  do  you  are  mistaken.  I  re- 
alize that  I  must  never  relax,  that  I  must  guard 
him  without  letting  him  know  it,  that  my  patience 
and  my  forgiveness  must  be  limitless,  that  I  must 
not  fill  my  life  with  other  things,  that  I  must  not 
try  to  forget,  but  to  remember,  I  can't  expect  to 
hold  him  without  constant  effort.  I  must  not  be 
fretted  by  his  casualness,  that  I  must  demand  little 
and  give  much.  What  of  it?  It  will  be  the  mak- 
ing of  me,  it  will  be  my  discipline — my  happiness." 

Again  there  was  a  pause,  and  Margaret  thought 
of  her  life,  barren  in  a  measure.  She  thought  of 
her  great  strength  and  capacity  for  loving,  and 
wondered  why  it  had  not  been  given  her  to  guide 
Tressidar's  wayward  footsteps. 

"Has  he  asked  you  to  marry  him?"  inquired 
practical  Miss  Crowley,  in  a  tone  which  was  meant 
to  be  kind.  She  was  totally  unprepared  for  the 
change  which  came  over  Leslie,  for  the  girl,  after 
catching  her  breath  sharply,  shook  her  head, 
and  crumpled  up  in  an  inert  heap  on  the  floor. 

The  following  afternoon  Vera,  and  Burnley,  Clif- 
ford Scott,  Leslie  and  Tressidar  were  having 
tea  together.  The  Crowley s  had  left  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  Leslie  was  getting  ready  to  go  down  to 
Edgeville,  she  said. 

"Ah,  sorceress,"  cried  Vera,  shaking  a  knowing 
finger  at  Leslie,  "have  you  been  further  importuned 
by  Mr.  Higgins,  or,  perhaps,  by  Mr.  Carson?"  She 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


147 


turned  to  Tressidar  and  sighed:  "Oh,  the  respon- 
sibility of  being  a  siren!" 

"Who  are  these  gentlemen?"  asked  Algy,  look- 
ing away  from  Vera. 

"Ss-h!"  she  laid  a  secretive  finger  on  her  lips. 
"One  is  the  sage  of  Edgeville,  a  man  who  laid 
claim  to  Leslie's  affections,  even  at  a  tender  age, 
and  the  other — has  the  engagement  been  renewed 
so  far  this  summer?"  she  asked,  in  another  tone, 
as  though  the  Fates  themselves  hung  in  the  bal- 
ance. 

"No,  he  has  not  taken  time  by  the  fetlock,  as 
Lew  Higgins  used  to  say,"  replied  the  girl,  laugh- 
ing. 

"What,  do  my  ears  deceive  me?"  Burnley  was 
utterly  incredulous;  "is  it  possible  that  you  are  not 
engaged  ?" 

"She  is  always  engaged  to  some  one,"  inter- 
rupted Vera  scornfully;  "to  whom  is  it  now, 
Leslie?" 

A  sudden  tenseness  seemed  to  grip  them  all. 
From  badinage  there  was  an  indescribable  sliding 
into  seriousness. 

"To  whom  are  you  engaged  now,  Leslie?"  re- 
peated the  widow,  trying  to  laugh. 

"Algy  Tressidar,"  answered  Kitty  Loring's 
daughter,  with  a  sob  in  her  throat. 

"Count  de  Vinville,"  announced  Morton,  as 
though  waiting  for  a  pause  in  the  conversation. 


H 


Ui 


'  m 


PART  II. 
CHAPTER  I. 

It  is  but  natural  that  a  woman's  marriage  marks 
the  greatest  change  in  her  Hfe.  Aside  from  that, 
it  is  perhaps  difficult  to  lay  one's  finger  upon  the 
year  or  number  of  years  stamping  one's  life  par- 
ticularly. 

The  five  years  following  her  marriage  were  full 
of  changes — events  intimately  connected  with  Les- 
lie Tressidar,  and  ones  which  came  with  alarming 
suddenness.  First  came  the  news  of  Mr.  Edge's 
death;  Clifford  Scott,  whom  she  had  always  con- 
sidered irreproachable,  from  a  moral  standpoint, 
ran  away  with  a  notorious  woman,  leaving  Leslie 
a  letter  full  of  bitterness,  anger,  and  reproach.  "I 
could  have  borne  it  had  you  chosen  Don  or  even 
De  Vinville,"  it  said,  among  other  things,  "but  by 
wantonly  ruining  your  own  life  this  way  you  are 
responsible  for  mine,  as  well.  This  will  be  a  com- 
forting thought  for  you  some  night  when  you  lie 
awake  and  curse  the  hour  you  were  born." 

About  two  years  after  her  own  marriage  An- 
gelique  and  Tom  Edge  followed  her  example,  and 
the  following  year  when  journeying  from  the  south 


m 


152 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


t  f 


'!l( 


,'   •! 


if;  !: 


i..^ 


■■t. 


where  Tom  had  settled,  to  Edgeville,  with  their  in- 
fant daughter,  they  were  killed.  The  baby's  life 
was  saved,  and  she  went  into  the  Edge  household 
a  lonely  little  creature,  more  set  apart  from  her  sur- 
roundings than  Leslie  was,  at  the  time  of  her  ad- 
vent there.  Margaret  Crowley  was  very  much  the 
same  serious,  earnest  worker,  and  Don — had  she 
been  asked,  Leslie  would  have  said  thai  she  saw 
him  frequently.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  rather 
seldom,  so  seldom  that  he  was  unchanged  to  her, 
though  Margaret  saw  him  with  very  different  eyes. 
Mrs.  Crowley  had  passed  away,  and  the  brother 
and  sister  drew  much  nearer  one  another. 

Last,  there  was  the  baby,  not  that  he  made  as 
great  a  change  in  the  Tressidars'  life  as  in  the  or- 
dinary home;  still,  a  baby  is  a  factor,  and  any  spare 
time  or  thought  not  given  to  Algy,  Leslie  devoted 
to  little  Loring.  He  was  a  peculiar  child,  preedu- 
cated,  one  might  say.  All  of  a  mother's  passion- 
ate love  was  given  him  before  his  birth,  three  years 
after  Leslie's  marriage. 

He  had  been  a  gigantic  problem  to  her,  this 
baby,  the  greatest  which  had  ever  confronted  her. 

No  one  who  knew  Algy  Tressidar  would  accuse 
him  of  an  atom  of  domesticity,  and  those  who  did 
not  know  Leslie  well  said  in  that  respect,  if  in  no 
other,  the  Tressidars  were  well  matched.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  she  was  both  domestic  and  maternal, 
and  she  had  yearned  for  a  little  child  as  only  one 
born  to  be  a  mother  could.  It  was  on  Algy's  ac- 
count that  she  hesitated  to  satisfy  her  longing,  and 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


153 


it  was  also  partly  on  the  child's  account — it's  fu- 
ture. For  the  first  eighteen  months  everything 
went  with  absolute  smoothness  and  accord.  Les- 
lie was  afraid  of  her  happiness.  Algy  seemed  to 
share  it  fully.  Their  home  was  open  to  their  many 
friends,  and,  contrary  to  the  usual  strain  under 
which  housekeepers  live,  Leslie  had  servants  who 
adored  her,  and  took  pleasure  in  adding  to  her 
happiness,  so  that  she  was  never  fretted  with  do- 
mestic cares. 

She  and  her  husband  lived  by  impulse,  at  least 
they  seemed  to,  but  secretly  she  was  always  watch- 
ing, probing  him  to  find  out  his  desires,  and  to 
gratify  them.  Nothing  was  too  much  trouble  for 
her  to  please  him. 

Dressed  and  waiting  for  dinner,  Leslie  would 
change  entirely  in  answer  to  a  'phone  message  to 
meet  her  husband  downtown,  if  he  seemed  to  pre- 
fer that  way  of  spending  the  evening  to  coming 
home.  She  never  went  away  without  him.  If  he 
went  first,  she  would  often  go  out  and  allow  her- 
self to  be  amused  rather  than  mope  alone,  but  her 
days  were  always  free.  Algy  took  his  choice  of 
hours,  as  it  were,  and  her  friends  took  the  re- 
mainder. How  seriously,  then,  did  she  consider 
the  problem  of  her  duty  and  responsibility  toward 
a  child ! 

Algy  always  said  he  was  fond  of  children,  but 
Leslie  realized  that  he  was  like  a  good  many  per- 
sons whose  fondness  rarely  stands  the  strain  of  a 
child's  society  for  more  than  an  occasional  half 


154 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


:     !i     f 


9  :  i 


hour  when  it  is  good,  and  who  wonder,  with  ill- 
concealed  annoyance,  why  a  troublesome  child  ever 
was  born.  She  realized  that  he  would  be  totally 
unsympathetic  and  uninterestec'  in  any  vital  issue 
concerning  the  child,  and  she  wondered  whether 
she  was  equal  to  the  task  alone. 

The  hard  thing  about  dealing  with  Algy  was 
that  he  was  always  good  natured,  he  always  ac- 
quiesced, but  if  he  did  not  like  the  decision  Leslie 
made  he  would  leave  her  and  amuse  himself  in  his 
own  way.  Because  of  his  indifference  to  the  world 
at  large  he  could  not  understand  the  tremendous 
amount  of  importance  his  wife  attached  to  his  pres- 
ence with  her — he  could  never  feel  that  she  abso- 
lutely relied  on  his  being  near  for  her  happiness. 
Consequently  he  was  reprehensively  lax  in  keeping 
his  appointments  with  her,  especially  where  social 
engagements  were  concerned. 

"Margaret  is  going  to  have  a  dinner  on  Thurs- 
day," she  had  told  him  one  day  at  lunch;  "it  is 
going  to  be  great  fun — a  crowd  of  prominent  so- 
cialists will  be  there,  and,  of  course,  Mr.  Carter. 
Actually,  Algy,  she  is  almost  excited!" 

"Really?"  asked  Tressidar,  smiling  at  his  wife's 
enthusiasm. 

"You  were  thinking  of  something  else,"  accused 
Leslie,  pouting. 

"Not-a-tall,"  declared  the  man,  going  around  to 
her  chair  and  bending  over  her.  "I  heard  everv 
word." 


.»  ^  .    ,»,.!. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


155 


"I  am  going  to  have  a  new  gown  by  then,  Os- 
monde  says." 

"What,  waste  a  new  gown  on  Socialists!" 

*'0h,  some  others  will  be  there.  Won't  it  be 
fun?" 

"Jolly,"  agreed  Algy,  kissing  her  full  red  lips. 

But  when  the  evening  came  Algy  telephoned 
from  town  saying  he  could  not  get  home,  he  was 
sorry;  couldn't  Miss  Crowley  fill  his  place? 

Another  time  he  and  Leslie  were  looking  over 
Country  Life,  and  she  was  going  into  raptures  over 
some  of  the  illustrations. 

"Oh,  Algy,  I  have  always  wanted  to  build  a 
bungalow,"  she  cried.  "Look  at  that  one;  isn't  it 
a  love?" 

"A  perfect  love,"  her  husband  breathed,  witH 
exaggerated  enthusiasn  Leslie  half  closed  her 
eyes  and  pulled  his  hana  tight  about  her,  snuggling 
close  against  him. 

"Just  think,  a  dear  little  bungalow  way,  way  off 
in  the  country,  maybe  in  the  woods,  where  we 
would  need  a  guide  every  time  we  stepped  beyond 
the  doorsill,  and  no  one  else  but  Algy  and  Leslie, 
and  perhaps  a  dog.  Yes,  of  course,  a  dog.  Think 
of  the  canoe  we  would  have  and  the  long  days 
with  books,  and  maps,  and  a  pipe,  and  lunch  way, 
way  off  where  there  was  no  one  but  Algy  and 
Leslie " 

"And  the  guide,"  he  interrupted. 

"No,  not  even  the  guide,  nor  dog.  We  could 
go  out  at  sunset  and  paddle  into  the  golden  twi- 


156 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


PH  ' 


■U 


1 


light,  until  the  stars  'tumbled  out  neck  and  crop, 
and  we'd  think  that  we  surely  were  dreaming,  with 
the  peace  of  the  world  piled  on  top.'  Just  Alg^y 
and  Leslie!  Oh,  darling,  wouldn't  you  love  to 
build  a  little  house  like  that" — she  had  straightened 
up  and  was  looking  at  him  now,  looking  for  an 
answer,  a  response  to  her  enthusiasm.  Finding  it 
was  not  there,  she  burst  into  a  merry  laugh — "and 
then  not  live  in  it." 

Algy  caught  her  to  him,  and,  tilting  her  head 
back,  kissed  her  lingeringly. 

"That  is  just  what  I  should  like  to  do.  Little 
Lady,"  he  said,  "build  a  little  bungalow  off  in  the 
woods  and — not  live  in  it."  The  subject  was  for- 
ever dropped. 

One  day  Clara  Bryce  brought  her  second  baby 
for  Leslie  to  see,  and  Algy  happened  to  be  at 
home.  He  looked  at  his  wife  curiously  as  she  took 
the  tiny  creature  in  her  arms,  and,  oblivious  to 
everything  else,  talked  to  it,  as  only  a  woman  can. 

"Isn't  he  a  darling,  Algy  ?"  Leslie  raised  dewy, 
shadowy  eyes  to  her  husband. 

"He  certainly  is  a  very  nice  baby,"  conceded 
Tressidar  patiently. 

"Take  him,"  begged  his  wife,  "take  him,  and 
see  whether  he  cries." 

The  result  was  unsatisfactory,  for  the  young 
scion  of  the  Bryce  family  rent  the  peaceful  air  with 
shrieks  and  howls. 

"He  evidently  doesn't  care  for  male  society,'* 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


157 


"I  had  better  get  beyond  his 


smiled  the  man. 
range  of  vision." 

Leslie  knew  that  he  was  bored,  and  was  in- 
tensely relieved  when  Clara  announced  her  inten- 
tion of  going  home  before  it  grew  too  chilly.  She 
wanted  to  catch  Algy  alone  before  he  went  out. 

"What  an  odd  person  you  are,  Leslie,"  he  said, 
as  she  came  into  the  den.  "For  one  so  out  of  the 
ordinary,  you  are  at  times  the  most  commonplace 
one  I  ever  saw.  I  really  expected  to  hear  you  dis- 
cuss the  merits  or  disadvantages  of  the  different 
baby  foods  with  that  little  simpleton." 

Leslie  looked  at  her  husband  with  surprise,  then 
a  tender,  loving  little  smile  crept  round  the  comers 
of  her  mouth.    Algy  was  jealous! 

Some  weeks  after  that  she  and  Tressidar  were 
dressing  for  the  theatre,  that  is,  Leslie  was  trying 
on  a  gown  which  had  just  come  home,  and  her  hus- 
band watched  Ceciley's  deft  fingers,  finding  with 
ease  the  numbers  of  hooks  and  eyes. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  asked  Leslie  anxiously. 

Tressidar  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  put  his 
head  on  one  side. 

"It  is  not  my  idea  of  a  success,"  he  said  finally. 
"I  think  Osmonde  is  not  doing  so  well  lately  for 
you,  Little  Lady;  these  clothes  always  make  you 
look  so  fat." 

For  an  instant  Leslie's  head  sv;am,  and  she  felt 
a  choking  in  her  throat.  This  seemed  to  be  the 
time  to  tell  him. 

"That's  all,  Ceciley,  thank  you.    Algy— my  dar- 


158 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


J 


t'l 


ling  husband,"  she  continued,  in  a  different  tone, 
sinking  on  a  large  white  rug  beside  him,  "Algy, 
darling,  I  can't  help  looking  queer — it  is  not  Os- 
monde's  fault.  I  am  afraid — I'll — look — worse — 
than  this — for  a  little  while." 

Tressidar  drew  away  from  her — recoiled,  in- 
deed, and  looked  into  the  upturned,  anxious  face. 

"My  God!"  his  voice  was  full  of  consternation. 
"My  God,  Little  Lady,  you  are  joking!" 

The  next  three  months  were  serious  ones;  both 
Leslie  and  her  husband  tried  to  forget  that  night, 
and  from  the  very  avoidance  of  the  topic  made  it 
more  momentous. 

When  the  child  was  born  Tressidar,  pleading  an 
inability  to  see  Leslie  suffer,  went  away  for  a  week. 
Another  woman  would  have  resented  this  as  a 
sign  of  neglect,  but  Leslie  did  not  harbor  any 
feeling  of  rancour,  because  she  was  glad  that  Algy 
should  not  see  her  "at  her  worst." 

Margaret  Crowley,  who  came  to  see  the  happy 
mother  a  day  or  so  before  Algy  came  home,  asked : 

"What  did  your  husband  say  when  he  saw  the 
baby?" 

"Oh,  he  is  away,"  answered  Leslie,  as  though 
it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 

"Away!"  repeated  Margaret,  in  astonishment. 
She  opened  her  lips  to  speak  further,  looked  at  Les- 
lie lying  there  with  the  child  in  her  arms,  then  rose 
quickly  and  lightly  kissed  h'^r  cheek.  "I  must  not 
tire  you,"  she  said,  "good-by!" 

"Isn't  Leslie  a  wonder?"  asked  Vera  Burnley  of 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


159 


her  as  they  met  in  the  hall  below.  "Oh,  I  knew 
Algy  (Vera  was  the  only  one  who  called  Tressi- 
dar  by  his  Christian  name)  was  away,  George  told 
me.  I  also  think  he  has  gone  with  Walter  Bryce, 
though  George  did  not  quite  say  that.  But  just 
imr-  ine  letting  him  go!" 

argaret  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "She  not 
only  lets  him — she  urges  him  to  do  whatever  he 
pleases." 

"She  has  always  been  so  piatient  with  him," 
sighed  Vera  enviously ;  "he  ought  to  crawl  into  her 
presence  on  all- fours." 

"Well,  he  does  love  her,"  Margaret  felt  she 
must  do  even  Tressidar  justice. 

"Why  shouldn't  he?  She  has  never  relaxed  one 
iota  since  her  marriage,  hke  most  of  us  do;  she 
keeps  him  guessing,  she  flirts  with  him,  she  feeds 
the  brute  as  Max  O'Rell  advises,  she  concentrates 
in  a  whole-souled  and  romantic  way  upon  him 
alone.  It  is  as  though  they  were  sweethearts — 
more,  she  holds  him  in  the  very  way  I  should  im- 
agine a  man's  mistress  would  try  to  keep  him." 
Then  Vera  laughed.  "Why,  do  you  know,  Mar- 
garet, she  was  panic  stricken  because  she  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  her  glorious  hair " 

"Hair?"  Margaret  repeated,  puzzled, 

"Yes,  hair.  She  could  not  wear  it  uncurled,  and 
would  not  'put  it  up*  when  he  might  see  her;  she 
even  dreaded  meeting  him  for  the  first  time  each 
day.  I  wormed  that  out  of  Ceciley.  An  intimate 
existence,  stripped  of  Life's  niceties  would  have 


IJi 


w 


M  i 


4 


'i 


;  } 


n  ! 


I*"  ! 


i6o 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


disgusted  Algy  Tressidar  and  strangled  every  atom 
of  affection." 

Margaret  thought  proudly  of  her  own  conven- 
tional home,  and  pictured  Algy  sitting  opposite  her 
in  the  morning.     Then  she  flushed  guiltily. 

Vera  went  on : 

"Leslie  always  said  she  loathed  the  sort  of 
woman  who  looks  like  a  surprised  feather  bed  in 
the  morning,  and  is  only  well-groomed  after  lunch. 
Heaven  knows  she  has  lived  up  to  her  standard. 
She  goes  through  more  Delsarte  and  Swedish  move- 
ments— she  spends  more  time  in  beautifying  her- 
self, in  a  week  than  I  do  in  a  month,  and  she  does 
it  all  for  him.  Me,  I  don't  care;  I  think  George 
is  a  hero,  and  he  thinks  I  am  an  angel,  and  I  love 
to  be  'comfy.'  I  crawl  into  a  faded  old  kimono 
and  put  my  feet  up  on  the  couch,  take  a  novel  and 
a  box  of  candy,  and  live.  When  I  hear  George 
open  the  door  I  fly  into  his  arms  and  squeeze 
him." 

Margaret  laughed,  and  almost  made  a  joke.  "I 
don't  believe  you,"  she  said. 

Vera  waved  a  deprecating  hand. 

"Let  it  pass.  If  you  won't  interrupt  me,  I  will 
draw  a  vivid  comparison  showing  you  that  Leslie 
'fixes,'  as  our  Southern  friends  say,  for  my  brave 
Algernon."  They  spoke  in  lowered  tones  for  a 
moment,  then  Vera  finished:  "If  she  is  resting 
and  she  hears  him  cominfj,  up  she  jumps,  flies  to 
the  glass,  powders  her  nose,  pats  her  hair,  and 
otherwise  makes  herself  lovely."    She  sighed  com- 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


i6i 


miseratingly,  and  concluded:  "Leslie  does  not 
know  the  joy  of  smothering  a  yawn,  stretching  her- 
self, and  murmuring:  'Oh,  what's  the  odds,  it's 
only  Algy.' " 

Tressidar's  attitude  toward  his  offspring  savored 
of  disfavor,  although  Leslie  tried  valiantly  to  keep 
the  child  in  the  background,  and  to  prevent  him 
from  conflictinp-  with  Algy.  Happily,  Ceciley  un- 
derstood this,  and  now,  as  always,  entered  into  her 
mistress'  wishes  with  an  energy  and  determination 
bom  of  great  love.  She  took  entire  charge  of  the 
boy,  Loring,  between  whom  and  his  father  there 
early  developed  an  antagonism,  an  animosity  quite 
serious  and  lasting. 

As  the  child  grew  older  he  and  his  mother  spent 
the  mornings  together,  as  a  rule.  At  that  time 
Tressidar  slept.  Then,  too,  sometimes  there  was 
a  delicious  hour  just  at  twilight  when  the  little 
fellow  would  cuddle  up  to  his  mother  and  sit  there 
watching  the  firelight  flicker  on  her  face — silent. 
He  was  a  curious  child,  for  days  a  perfect  chat- 
terbox, then  suddenly  veering  to  the  opposite  ex- 
treme, until  Ceciley,  quite  disturbed,  would  send 
him,  a  dozen  times  a  day,  to  his  mother  or  father 
with  a  second-hand  question  on  his  lips. 

These  questions  for  the  most  part  resulted  in 
one  of  his  own  fashioning,  invariably  about  his 
father,  whom,  by  some  queer  evolution  of  his  baby 
brain,  he  called  "Ugly."  Without  stubbornness  or 
a  show  of  temper,  Loring  persisted  in  clinging  to 
this  name,  even  after  tmderstanding  that  the  name 


1 62 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


fill 


I 


•4  •";, 


'  !    \ 


\ 


i; 


M  : 


was  Algy,  not  Olgy,  nor  Ugly.  At  first  Tressi- 
dar  was  annoyed,  then,  perhaps  because  it  was  too 
much  trouble  to  persevere,  he  gave  up  trying  to 
correct  the  child,  and  found  much  humor  in  his 
nickname. 

"Why  doesn't  Ugly  get  up  when  we  do, 
Mammy?" 

"He  doesn't  like  catching  the  worm,  perhaps," 
answered  Leslie,  laughing. 

"Is  that  a  joke?     Where  is  a  worm?" 

"We  may  be  the  worms,  son  of  mine,"  the 
mother  said. 

"What  makes  Ugly  stay  out  so  late,  then  ?"  asked 
the  boy,  still  more  earnestly. 

Leslie  started,  and  looked  at  him  curiously. 
"How  do  yon  know  he  stays  out  late?"  she  asked. 

"I  hear  him,"  announced  the  little  chap,  trium- 
phantly, "and  I  get  out  of  bed  sometimes  and  watch 
him  coming  up  the  stairs.  And  once,"  he  lowered 
his  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper,  "I  saw  him  com- 
ing slowly  up  the  stairs  holding  tight  to  the  banis- 
ter, and  tripping  just  like  I  used  to.  And,  Mammy, 
I  hid  behind  my  door,  and  when  you  opened  your 
door  you  cried  out  loud,  and  said:  'Oh,  Ugly, 
you  did  break  your  word  again!'  What  is  break 
your  word.  Mammy?" 

Leslie  listened,  horror  stricken.  How  much  did 
this  child  know?  His  very  silence  all  these  months 
may  have  been  proof  of  his  knowledge!  She 
thought  how  carefully,  how  painstakingly,  she  had 
always  tried  to  make  Loring  love  his  father,  hoping 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


163. 


that  by  the  very  fulness  of  love—confidence  en- 
trusted to  him,  Algy  would  strive  harder  to  be 
worthy  of  it.  Then  she  realized  that  the  boy  was 
waiting  for  an  answer. 

"To  break  your  word,  dear  son,  is  to  promise 
something  and  not  keep  that  promise.  Suppose 
you  promised  mother  that  you  would  never  speak 
of  your  dear  father  in — in — this — this  way  to  any 
one  else  but  her,  then,  darling,  you  would  have  to 
keep  your  promise,  or  you  would  be  breaking  your 
word;  do  you  understand?" 
"Yes,  Mammy,  dear." 

"Well,  will  you  promise  only  to  talk  to  mother 
about  these  things?" 
"Not  even  Ceciley?" 

Leslie  hesitated  an  instant.  Of  course  Ceciley 
knew,  though  by  unremitting  care  she  prevented 
Algy's  lapses  from  being  generally  known ;  he  was 
never  boisterous  and  never  ill.  Staying  in  his  or 
her  room  so  much  ordinarily,  these  "days  after," 
caused  no  particular  comment  among  the  servants. 
"Well,  perhaps  Ceciley,"  she  conceded  thought- 
fully, "but  no  one  else;  do  you  promise?" 
"Yes,  I  promise." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  Leslie  busy  with  her 
own  thoughts,  forgot  all  about  the  serious-eyed 
child  sitting  beside  her.  She  looked  into  the  mys- 
tic shadows  cast  by  slowly  rising  flames,  and  won- 
dered whether  that  peace,  that  haven  from  tears 
and  sighs  such  as  she  had  known  during  the  first 
year  of  her  marriage,  would  ever  come  again.  For 


H 1 


164 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


the  last  few  days  she  had  watched  Algy  with  mis- 
giving  and  concern.  The  suspicious  restlessness 
became  mce  and  more  apparent,  until,  unable  to 
fight  any  longer,  he  had  announced  his  intention 
of  going  for  a  long  tramp  that  afternoon. 

"Take  me,  dear,"  begged  Leslie,  putting  her 
arms  about  his  neck  wistfully. 

"Not  to-day.  Little  Lady,  I  would  rather  go 
alone,  if  I  may."  He  always  remembered  to  be 
aloofly  polite,  and  he  kissed  her  good-by  with  just 
a  shade  less  of  deliberation  than  was  his  wont,  and 
went  out  of  the  room. 

"Mother,"  the  child's  voice  implied  that  he  had 
spoken  before.  He  was  standing  in  front  of  Les- 
lie, his  great,  solemn  eyes  fastened  upon  her. 
"Mother,  tell  me,  is  Ugly  a  drunker?" 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


i6$ 


CHAPTER  II. 

Yes,  Ugly  was  a  "drunker."  Leslie  and  Clara 
Brycc  realized  just  what  that  mean*  so  perhaps  did 
Miss  Polly  and  her  sister,  whose  health  had  failed 
greatly  in  the  last  few  years.  Without  being  ab- 
solutely insistent,  Leslie  could  never  discover  with 
whom,  besides  Walter,  her  husband  spent  these 
riotous  hours.  She  had  but  one  consolation  which 
was  that  she  felt  sure  his  other  companions  were 

Of  course,  she  did  not  prefer  to  have  him  dnnk, 
and  never  relinquished  her  hope  of  bringing  him 
to  a  realization  of  his  unmanly  course,  but  she 
could  even  be  happy  with  the  knowledge  of  it  as 
long  as  there  were  no  other  women.  She  under- 
stood the  potency  of  her  rival— Scotcb—but  she 
could  not  have  made  a  constant  struggle  to  hold 
Algy  against  other  women— and  fail.  For  once 
there  was  joy  in  the  fight— at  the  thought  of  a  cold 
and  critical  reception  by  the  girls  at  Madame's, 
Leslie's  sensitive  soul  had  trembled;  she  felt  she 
could  not  fight  to  win,  but  this  was  different,  hold- 
ing something  of  the  same  intense  excitement  for 
her  that  the  angler  feels,  playing  with  a  speckled 
trout    She  had  to  let  him  go,  sometimes  he  went 


i66 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


far,  but  then  she  forced  him  back  again,  and  some 
day  she  hoped  to  "land  him."  "It  is  a  game  which 
I  play,"  she  often  said  to  herself  while  waiting  for 
the  sound  of  his  step,  "one  in  which  time  counts 
for  nothing.  I  must  be  able  to  stand  otf  and  look 
on  at  each  success  from  j^rcater  heights.  The  fail- 
ures then  will  seem  small  and  dim  in  comparison. 
I  must  take  success  for  granted,  and  be  above 
failure." 

True,  the  first  time  Algy  had  come  to  the  house 
in  a  state  of  intoxication  Leslie,  through  her  very 
illness,  really  wanted  to  die.  to  take  her  life.  Up 
to  that  lime  s!ie  could  not  believe  the  curse  which 
had  fallen  on  Clara  Bryce  would  ever  come  to  her. 
But  instantly  she  put  the  thought  vehemently  from 
her  as  unworthy.  She  remembered  a  dissertation 
of  her  own,  delivered  to  Vera  Stearns,  in  one  of 
her  very  few  melancholy  moods. 

"Suicide?"  Leslie  had  said.  "No,  the  idea  is 
preposterous,  my  dear!"  Leaving  fear  of  the  per- 
formance, the  blot  on  one's  family,  and  religion, 
out  of  the  question,  suicide  is  useless — it  gains  noth- 
ing. As  well  as  poetic.  Life  is  tiresomely  practical, 
mathematically  so,  I  might  say.  All  of  Life  is  a 
Problem — ours  differ  very  slightly,  though  we  can't 
see  that — and  w  hen  we  pass  on  to  another  existence 
we  simply  take  up  higher  mathematics,  as  it  were. 
If  you  leave  your  problem  unfinished  here,  it  only 
means  that  you  will  have  to  go  over  the  same  im- 
interesting  work  there." 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


167 


"How  big  you  are,  Leslie,"  Vera  sighed  envi- 
ously. 

The  second  time  Algy  lapsed  Leslie  was  more 
or  less  prepared  for  it,  and  she  did  not  feel  so 
tragically  hurt.  The  hideous  illness  was  just  as 
bad,  the  aching  just  as  great,  but  in  some  wonder- 
ful way  she  made  it  less  a  part  of  her.  "It  is  a 
game,"  she  kept  saying  to  herself,  "only  a  game, 
and  I  must  play  to  win — impersonally.  One  gets 
a  better  perspective  by  being  less  personal." 

So  she  waited  for  him  at  the  tup  of  the  stairs, 
her  eyes  wide  with  horror,  her  soul  writhing. 

Tressidar  did  not  see  his  wife  until  he  reached 
the  landing  a  few  feet  from  her.  Then  he  took 
oflf  his  hat  politely  and  made  a  sort  of  staggering 
bow. 

"Sense  me  for  coming  home  drunk,  LitT  Lady! 
'S  perfectly  in  scuseable,  realize  fact.  Sh  no  ush 
to  shtay  up,  'm  not  ver'  bad — musht  go  t'  bed." 

"Algy,  my  husband,"  cried  tiie  girl  brokenly, 
"let  me  help!" 

For  days  he  "drank,"  and  for  the  most  part 
Leslie  kept  away  from  him,  nor  did  he  send  for 
her,  and  when  the  "attack"  was  over  she  redoubled 
her  tenderness. 

"I  am  not  worthy  of  your  slightest  consideration, 
dearest,"  Tressidar  told  her  a  dozen  times  during 
the  first  weeks  after,  "and  it  appals  me  when  I  think 
how  I  have  ruined  your  Hfe." 

"You  have  not  ruined  it — you  need  not  ruin  it," 
she  corrected,  fixing  her  great,  luminous  eyes  on 


i68 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


!l 


m 


^^■i 


f 


him.  "I  trust  you  enough  to  know  that  you  will 
make  a  fight  such  as  never  before,  and  you  will 
win,  won't  you  ?"  she  plead,  leaning  toward  him. 

"Oh,  God,  how  I  love  you!"  he  breathed,  catch- 
ing her  to  him.  "Don't  move,  except  to  come 
closer  to  me." 

Their  lips  met,  and  the  man  made  a  little  sound 
of  delight. 

"Algy,"  Leslie  whispered,  forgetting  all  the 
world  in  the  rapture  of  his  caress. 

An  "attack"  always  terminated  in  a  scene  of  this 
sort,  and  the  subject  was  dropped  until  the  next 
time. 

Another  time  she  thought  she  would  experiment 
and  see  if  an  attitude  of  wounded  pride  would 
have  greater  effect.  Once  she  tried  tears  and  pro- 
testations. In  each  case  the  man  was  properly  re- 
pentant, he  apologized,  he  was  passionately  ten- 
der and  loving  with  his  wife — and  sinned  again. 

Leslie's  friends  held  different  views  regarding 
her  and  her  life. 

Don  Crowley  was  a  sadly  changed  man,  though 
she  did  not  see  it,  or,  if  she  did,  attributed  it  to 
a  premature  aging  of  one  who  came  of  naturally 
serious  stock.  He  staggered  under  the  weight  of 
the  burden  of  remorse,  and  a  rather  far-fetched 
self-accusation  for  having  brought  Tressidar  and 
Leslie  together. 

He  watched  the  two  with  morbid  solicitude,  and, 
knowing  what  manner  of  man  had  robbed  him  of 
Leslie,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  believe  that 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


169 


she  was  happy.  He  all  'd  his  imagination  to 
play  him  strange  tricks  w  sver  he  was  with  her; 
the  recollection  of  his  owi.  part  in  her  life  never 
left  him,  and  he  began  to  totter  under  the  strain  of 
constant  brooding. 

Happy  or  not,  Leslie  did  not  understand  Don  as 
she  had  in  the  years  gone  by,  and  he  rather  bored 
her  by  his  melancholy. 

She  always  felt  that  he  expected  something  of 
her,  and  she  resented  it.  Don  did  hope  for  some- 
thing, though  he  did  not  actually  expect  it.  He 
hoped  that  Leslie  would  give  him  an  opening  by 
which  he  could  tell  her  of  his  care  and  thought  for 
Algy,  and  perhaps — ^perhaps  she  would  ask  hisi 
help.  Of  course,  she  could  not  know  that  Don 
kept  pretty  close  tab  upon  Tressidar,  often  bring- 
ing him  home  from  horrible  "holes"  in  the  city, 
or  delaying  him  at  the  club,  drunk,  sacrificing  his 
own  time  and  inclination  by  so  doing,  rather  than 
know  he  had  gone  to  one  of  these  repulsive  places. 

Leslie  sat  sewing  on  a  suit  for  Loring.  He  was 
going  to  Edgeville  to  spend  the  summer,  and  was 
anxious  to  go,  for,  in  his  serious  way,  he  confided 
to  his  mother  that  he  had  been  too  long  away  from 
Edna  Edge,  Tom's  child. 

"When  I  get  through  marrying  you  and  Ce- 
ciley.  Mammy,  I  promised  Edna  to  marry  her." 

Somehow,  things  had  lost  their  savor  of  late, 
she  felt  nervous  and  depressed,  which  was  only  nat* 
ural,  owing  to  the  fact  that  Algy  had  another  "at- 
tack," and  had  not  been  home  for  a  week. 


170 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


S 


! 


Iv  I 

! 


!!■ 


It  was  the  uncertainty,  the  nerve-racking  uncer- 
tainty which  hurt  so.  Constantly  on  the  qui  vive, 
constantly  expecting  him,  the  tension  was  horrible. 
Even  Loring's  birthday,  his  sixth  birthday,  failed 
to  create  a  happy  diversion,  for  Leslie  gave  so  much 
of  her  time  and  thought  to  little  things  in  con- 
nection with  Algy. 

"Perhaps  he  will  come  this  afternoon,"  she  had 
said.  "I  will  order  everything  he  likes  for  din- 
ner, and  we  will  go  to  the  theatre  after." 

She  ate  the  dinner  alone  and  cancelled  the  order 
for  tickets. 

"He  will  surely  come  to-night,"  she  had  thought, 
"and  so  I  will  fix  everything  'comfy'  and  cozy  in 
his  room." 

She  dressed  herself  in  a  favorite  kimona  (Vera 
Burnley  said  Leslie  never  undressed),  put  a  rose  in 
her  hair,  and  waited  until  the  gray  dawn  stretched 
a  warning  finger  across  the  sky. 

"I  must  sleep,"  she  sighed,  "or  I'll  be  a  fright 
when  he  comes  to-day,"  and  so  on. 

Some  one  came  up  the  steps ;  the  needle,  stripped 
of  its  guidance,  slid  sharply  into  Leslie's  tender 
skin,  and  drew  a  large,  trembling  drop  of  blood 
from  it.  She  did  not  notice,  her  heart  beat  un- 
comfortably, and  her  lips  parted  in  what  she 
thought  was  a  smile. 

The  steps  paused  outside  her  door,  which  was 
ajar,  and  some  one  knocked. 

"Come  in,"  she  cried,  rising  eagerly. 

"Mr.  Crowley  to  see  you,  madame." 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


171 


To  the  woman's  overwrought  nerves  Thomas^ 
tone  sounded  sympathetic.  "Are  you  at  home?" 
he  asked  deferentially. 

"I  will  be  down  in  a  few  moments,"  answered 
his  mistress,  controlling  herself  with  an  effort 
"Close  the  door." 

As  the  latch  caught,  Leslie  Tressidar  pressed  her 
hands  against  her  head  and  moaned.  Then,  rais- 
ing herself,  she  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Perhaps  he  has  sent  me  a  message,"  she  said. 

"Ceciley!" 

"Did  you  call  me.  Miss  Leslie?" 

"Ceciley,  Mr.  Crowley  is  downstairs.  I  think  I 
shall  go  down.    Do— er— do  I— er— look  sleepy?" 

This  faithful  servant  shared  something  of  Don 
Crowley's  feeling,  in  that  she  longed  for  a  break- 
ing of  the  barrier  Leslie  raised  between  them. 

If  she  had  only  said  "I  am  a  little  bothered  to- 
day, will  you  see  that  no  one  disturbs  me?"  or  if 
she  would  show  jubt  once  a  lapse  into  her  old  im- 
pulsiveness, and  say,  "I  am  worried  about  Mr. 
Tressidar,"  Ceciley  would  have  had  fewer  heart- 
aches. Tliis  constant  secretiveness,  even  to  her, 
caused  her  many  hours  of  agony,  but  to  Leslie  in 
her  selfish  absorption  Ceciley's  suffering  was  not 
at  all  apparent. 

"No,  lamb,  you  don't  look  sleepy,  though  I  dare 
say  the  air  would  freshen  you  up  a  bit.  Will  you 
go  out,  just  to  please  me  ?" 

Mrs.  Tressidar  looked  at  her  maid  sharply,  then 


n 


172 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


1! 


'i 


I 


\  I 


into  the  mirror.  The  lines  about  her  lips  were  not 
as  faint  as  formerly,  nor  were  the  lips  as  red. 

"Go  out?"  she  repeated,  putting  out  her  foot, 
"well,  perhaps  I  will.  You  might  change  my  shoes, 
anyway." 

Don,  abnormally  alert,  instantly  exaggerated  the 
change  he  saw  in  Leslie,  although  he  wisely  did  not 
mention  it.  He  had  really  come  to  find  out  whether 
or  not  Tressidar  had  returned,  for  after  the  first 
three  days  carousal  the  man  had  eluded  him,  and 
this  time  he  was  evidently  alone,  for  Walter  Bryce 
had  gone  home  two  or  th-ee  days  ago,  and  knew 
nothing  of  his  whereabouts. 

"Will  you  come  for  a  drive,  Les?"  asked  Don. 
"I  have  the  car  here." 

Leslie  hesitated;  Alg^y  would  surely  come  to- 
night, he  might  come  and  find  her  gone.  Then 
what  would  he  say?  She  had  always  been  wait- 
ing. 

"We  won't  go  far,"  Crowley  suggested,  not  too 
anxiously.  "I  myself  have  an  engagement  for  din- 
ner; this  is  only  in  case  you  were  going  to  insist 
upon  my  staying  here,"  he  added,  with  a  happy  re- 
turn of  his  old-time  manner. 

Leslie  laughed.  "I  wish  you  would  stay  here," 
she  said,  though  somewhat  mechanically.  She  was 
wondering  how  to  ask  Don  whether  he  had  seen 
Algy,  without  letting  him  know  the  whole  circum- 
stances connected  with  his  long  disappearance. 

"I've  not  seen  Margaret  lately,"  she  continued, 
in  the  machine,  "is  she  away?" 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


173 


"No,  she  says  she  can't  leave  town  until  late  in 
the  summer,  this  year,  if  she  goes  at  all.  I  am 
fairly  content ;  the  house  is  far  cooler  than  a  hotel 
would  be,  and  we  have  sold  the  cottage." 

"Really?" 

"Oh,  yes."  Don's  voice  unconsciously  drifted 
back  to  his  tone  of  melancholy.  "Things  are  not 
the  same  as  in  the  old  days  when  we  used  to  have 
the  crowd  down  there." 

"I  suppose  that  means  me."  Leslie  felt  better 
for  companionship  and  the  fresh  air.  Her  buoy- 
ancy was  heaven-sent  and  greatly  needed ;  it  was  the 
capacity  for  throwing  off  trouble  which  kept  her 
sane. 

"Yes,"  the  man's  voice  was  much  more  serious 
than  she  liked.  "I  rather  fancy  that  means  you. 
Do  you  remember  the  day  Clifford  came  into  the 
dining  room  and  asked  where  the  crowd  was?" 

"No.  I  don't,  Don." 

"Well,  of  course  you  couldn't  remember  any- 
thing except  hearing  about  it,  for  you  were  not 
there— all  the  rest  were,  and  Clifford  coming  into 
the  room  naively  asked,  "Why,  where  is  the 
•crowd'?" 

"How  funny!"  Leslie's  eyes  scanned  the  pas- 
sers-by keenly.  They  were  driving  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  club,  and  she  hoped  desperately  to  catch 
sight  of  her  husband. 

"Have  you  been  to  the  club  to-day?"  asked 
Algy's  wife  at  last,  her  eyes  on  the  sidewalk. 

"Yes,  I  dropped    in    before    coming    to    your 


174 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


•1  t 


i  ' 


.« 
J 

|i 


r 


house,"  Don  answered,  in  what  he  hoped  was  an 
evasive  tone.  He  wanted  Leslie  to  question  him 
further. 

"You  did  not  see  Algy  there,  did  you?"  The 
woman  turned  slowly  from  her  scrutiny  to  Crow- 
ley, and  her  eyes  made  him  ache. 

"Not  to-day,"  he  answered  almost  carelessly. 
"Oh,  was  he  there  yesterday?"  Perhaps  Les- 
lie would  have  been  more  on  her  guard  were  she 
not  in  such  a  pitiably  nervous  state,  for  she  had 
not  intended  to  let  Don  know  that  her  husband  had 
an  "attack." 

"No,  dear,  nor  yesterday.     I  came  to  see  you 
this  afternoon  to  offer  my  help,  if  you  will  only  take 
it,  Leslie.     Don't  put  me  aside!    Oh,  please,  don't 
put  me  entirely  out  of  your  life!     H  by  helping 
him"_he  hesitated  at  the  pronoun — "I  can  help 
you,  I  ask  nothin.cj  more  than  to  do  it  that  way!" 
There  was  a  moment's  silence. 
"I  don't  know  where  he  is.  if  that  is  what  you 
mean."    Leslie  spoke  each  word  slowly  and  with  a 
peculiar  emphasis,  as  though  she  wanted  Don  to 
realize  that  she  was  not  evading  the  subject.    "Do 
you?" 
"No." 
There  was  silence  again,  and  they  turned  toward 

home. 

"When  did  you  last  see  him?" 

"At  the  club,  three  days  ago." 

"Is  Walter  at  home?" 

"Yes.    I  have  visited  all  their  accustomcd- 


>» 


Mi 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


175 


"Haunts,"  suggested  Leslie. 

"But  don't  fret  and  worry,  Leslie.  I  intend  to 
^nd  him  to-night,  or  to-morrow  without  fail.  I 
only  wanted  to  feel  that  my  search  was  a  neces- 
sary one — I  mean  that  he  was  not  at  home." 

"Of  course  I  can  'phone  you  if  he  comes  in  the 
meantime." 

"Will  you  not  come  somewhere  and  have  dinner 

with  me  now?" 

"But  you  said  you  were  engaged  for  dinner ;  be- 
sides  " 

Don  waved  a  deprecating  hand. 

"Well,  I  never  like  to  be  away,  in  case  he  might 

come." 

"Just  this  once,"  Crowley  begged.  "You  look 
as  though  you  needed  a  change." 

The  look  of  tender  solicitude  touched  Leslie,  it 
was  such  a  novelty  to  be  thought  of  and  taken  care 
of.  She  would  like  to  dress,  have  dinner,  and  go 
to  the  theatre.     Why  not? 

"When  shall  I  come  back?"  asked  Don,  as  though 
she  had  consented. 

"In  about  an  hour,"  returned  the  woman,  half 
afraid. 

The  evening  passed  quickly  for  them  both. 

"Now,  supper,  just  for  the  sake  of  old  times," 
Don  said,  leading  her  out  of  the  crowded  lobby 
carefully;  he  was  nearer  happiness  than  he  had 
been  for  months.  Proximity  to  Leslie  always 
thrilled  him,  and  her  leaning  toward  him  and  al- 


176 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


lowing  him  even  a  glimpse  into  her  trouble  seemed 
to  draw  them  wonderfully  close  once  more. 

*'No,  Don,  don't  pity  me,"  she  said,  when  they 
were  seated  at  a  small  table.  "I  don't  feel  as  badly 
broken  up  as  you  might  think.  Oh,  I  love  Sherry's, 
don't  you?" 

"Will  you  send  for  me  and  always  let  me  help?" 
asked  Crowley,  fearful  lest  he  should  lose  his  ad- 
vantage.    **V\  ill  you  promise?" 

"There  is  nothing  you  can  do  that  you  have  not 
already  done,"  the  tone  was  serious,  and  the  huge, 
gray  eyes  were  grave.  "You  can't  keep  him  from 
— It — and  the  only  thing  that  sometimes  worries 
me  is  the  thought  that  there  may,  some  day,  be 
another  woman." 

Don's  face  reflected  the  crimson  flush  which  rose 
to  Leslie's  burnished  hair.  Yes,  he,  too,  shared 
her  feeling— drink  was  bad  enough,  but  wine  and 
women,  with  Leslie  waiting  there,  "God,"  his  teeth 
snapped  together  spasmodically,  "I  would  kill  himl" 
he  muttered  to  himself. 

"I  should  feel  as  though  I  were  fighting  in  the 
dark,"  he  he«rd  Leslie  saying,  as  though  to  her- 
self, "only  I  think  I  should  like  to  know." 

"Really?"  tlie  man's  voice  was  almost  incredu- 
lous. 

"Why,  certainly,  anything  would  be  easier  to  bear 
than  suspicion — suspicion!  Can't  you  understand 
that?" 

"No."  He  was  looking  over  her  shoulder,  to- 
ward the  door  which  neither  of  them  exactly  faced. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


177 


He  frowned  ever  so  slightly,  even  though  seeminsr 
to  listen  to  Leslie's  words  eagerly,  and  to  be  anx- 
ious to  have  her  explain  further. 

"No,"  he  repeated,  "I  don't  understand.  Just 
what  do  you  mean?" 

His  eagerness  puzzled  her,  and  a  sudden  intui- 
tion came  to  her— there  was  something  electric  in 
the  atmosphere,  and  quite  inexplicably  Don's  face 
opposite  faded  slowly  away,  a  sickening  nausea 
seized  her,  and  she  half  rose  from  her  chair.  Two 
men  and  two  women  were  standing  at  a  near  table 
while  the  waiter  took  their  wraps. 

The  women  were  unmistakably  actresses,  one  of 
the  men  was  Count  de  Vinville,  and  the  other  was 
— Algy  Tressidar. 


tyS 


XHE  WINNING  GAME 


CHAPTER  III. 


L 


•^ 


ill 


il-Jr!' 


3   I 


Miss  Libby  Bryce  passed  quielly  away  on  an 
afternoon  when  the  doctor  had  come  to  see  Clara, 
who  became  so  pitiful  a  prey  to  nervousness  that 
the  devoted  little  aunts  oflen  feared  for  her  sanity. 
The  doctor  had  graver  reasons  than  they  for  fear, 
but  he  had  never  told  them,  only  cautioned  them 
to  keep  a  watchful  eye  on  her  when  in  one  of  her 
fits. of  depression. 

Miss  Libby's  death  was  a  great  surprise,  and 
shock  to  them  all.  and  a  real  grievance  to  Walter, 
who  begrudged  her  the  money  expended  on  her  fu- 
neral, modest  as  it  was.  He  was  badly  in  ne«d 
of  funds  just  at  this  time,  liaving  a  new  and  ab- 
sorbing penchant  {or  the  litile  I*"rench  actress  who 
was  setting  blase  old  Gotham  agog.  He  and  Tres- 
sidar  had  seen  her  tiie  first  night  of  their  last 
escapade,  and  both  of  them  promptly  succumbed 
to  her  heartless  fascinations. 

Tressidar  was  less  lavish  of  gifts  than  his  com- 
panion, though  he  could  better  afford  them,  having 
precisely  the  same  amount  of  money  at  his  dis- 
posal now  as  before  his  marriage.  In  so  delicate 
a  way  that  he  could  not  feel  a  dependent,  Leslie 
insisted  upon  assuming  the  total  burden  of  house- 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


179 


keeping,  and  there  had  been  many  times  since  when 
her  husband  gave  her  a  silent  vote  of  gratitude. 

Creditors,  tired  of  long-standing  accounts, 
pressed  Walter  unmercifully,  and  he  had  intended 
asking  his  aunts  for  funds  the  very  afternoon  of 
Miss  Libby's  death,  having  invited  Celeste  the  Ador- 
able, and  her  friend  Mile.  Jovin  (whom  he  fondly 
imagined  would  interest  Tressidar)  to  supper  that 

night.  , 

It  therefore  happened  that  on  Bryces  phonmg 
Algy  downtown,  of  his  aunt's  death,  late  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  day  Leslie  saw  him,  Count  de  Vin- 
ville,  conveniently  and  obligingly  consented  to  make 
a  fourth,  and  the  party  came  off  with  eclat.  ^ 

Neither  of  them  saw  or  recognized  Leslie,  Don  s 
presence  of  mind  prevented  that,  for  he  put  himself 
between  them  and  the  fainting  woman,  whom  he 
literally  carried  out  of  the  room. 

De  Vinville  thought  he  recognized  Crowley,  but 
it  did  not  occur  to  him  at  the  instant  that  so  suc- 
cessful a  culmination  of  his  schemes  had  already 

taken  place. 

For  the  Count  was  playing  a  nasty  and  dan- 
gerous game— not,  by  the  way,  one  that  he  con- 
sidered in  that  light,  though;  his  moral  sensibilities 
having  been  benumbed  for  a  sad  length  of  time. 
He,  like  Crowley  (but  for  somewhat  different  rea- 
sons or  from  a  different  viewpoint),  could  not  be- 
lieve Leslie  a  happy  woman;  he,  unlike  Don,  did 
not  imagine  that  she  knew  Algy  as  she  did,  and 
to  De  Vinville  the  only  thing  needed  to  kill  what 


MICROCOPY   RESOLUTION   TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1.0 


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1.25 


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1^ 

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2.0 

1-  ^ 

Ut.1. 

1 

1.8 

III 

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1653    Eost    Main    Street 
Rochester,    New   York         14609 
(716)    482  -  0300  -  Phone 
(716)    238  -  5989  -  Fax 


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THE  WINNING  GAME 


'J  -;', 


r-: 


love  she  had  for  her  husband  was  to  bring  her 
to  a  reahzation  of  the  Hfe  he  led. 

With  this  lofty  end  in  view  and  the  glimmer- 
ing of  a  rosy  future  for  himself  locked  in  the  white 
arms  whicn  had  hitherto  entwined  themselves 
about  an  unresponsive  drunkard,  he  began  cau- 
tiously to  put  temptation  distractingly  close  to  Algy 
Tressidar,  and  to  help  him  overcome  what  fleeting 
scruples  he  may  have  felt.  As  in  the  case  of  Wal- 
ter Bryce,  the  Englishman  disliked  De  Vinville,  and 
swore  that  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him. 
At  times  of  sobriety  he  was  flagrantly  rude  to  the 
Count,  but  insidiously  the  other  drew  him  into  the 
toils,  and  it  was  through  him  that  Algy  shook  off 
the  tiresome  attention  of  Walter  Bryce,  and  gave 
himself  into  the  hands  which  were  to  betray  him. 
It  was  De  Vinville  who  encouraged  him  to  meet 
Celeste  Mignon,  as  she  prettily  named  herself;  it 
was  he  who  fanned  the  already  glowing  spark  of 
flirtation  in  the  dancer's  heart,  to  a  real  and  hun- 
gry flame,  and  it  was  he  who  sat  complacently  back 
to  watch  the  little  drama  of  his  own  fashioning. 

He  found,  with  satisfaction,  that  the  longer  he 
stayed  away  from  Leslie  the  less  Tressidar  allowed 
any  qualms  of  conscience  to  act  as  a  counter-irritant, 
and  the  easier  it  was  to  lure  him  with  the  magic  of 
Celeste  Mignon's  name. 

At  the  club,  a  week  or  so  after  the  supper  at 
Sherry's,  De  Vinville  was  rather  surprised  to  note 
that  Crowley  deliberately  sought  him  as  with  a 
purpose.     He  allowed  himself  to  drift  apart  from 


^ 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


i8i 


the  other  men,  and  sat  quietly  listening  to  Don's 

commonplaces.  ,    j    v  u* 

"Not  going  across  this  year?"  he  asked,  light- 
ing a  cigarette.  , 

"No,"  the  Count  answered,  smiling.       I  have  m- 
terests  here  which  will  require  my  attention." 
"Ah!"  Crowley  smiled,  too.     "We  all  get  :hem 

sooner  or  later."  u-    *    n« 

Except  that  both  men  had  the  same  object—Ue 
Vinville  to  tell  his  secret  and  Crowley  to  hear  it— 
this  conversation  could  never  have  taken  place. 
Each  played  his  own  part  well,  and  while  the  re- 
sult to  Crowley  was  not  what  he  wished,  it  was  to 
the  other  eminently  satisfactory. 

"Yes  we  all  have  interests  which  are  absorbing, 
sooner  'or  later,"  repeated  the  Count,  "only  this 
time,  my  frien',  he  is  a  man." 

"I  see,  I  see;  very  sad,  isn't  it?"  Don  hoped  he 
appeared  to  be  making  conversation.  ^ 

"Ah,  but  yes,  it  is  sad,"  the  other  sighed,  for 
this  time  he  seems  positively  infatuated." 

They  spoke  for  another  half  hour  on  the  same 
topic,  then  left  the  club,  going  in  different  direc- 
tions, Don  making  his  way  to  Leslie  s  home,  and 
De  Vinville  going  jauntily  downtown.  He  teit 
that  this  latest  escapade  would  surely  reach  the  ears 
of  Mrs.  Algernon  Tressidar;  before,  he  could  not 
believe  such  knowledge  had  come  to  her. 

Don  waited,  moodily,  for  Leslie  to  come  down- 

"You  were  right,"  he  said,  when  she  came  slowly 


ry^T---^*  **»  .  %  '1^  ■!*—  - 


l82 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


^n 


\f  '  i 
I" 


into  the  room,  "she  is  Angelique's  sister,  and  ap- 
parently as  heartless  and  unprincipled  as  Angelique 
was  the  reverse.  He  seems  to  be  with  her  every 
moment  she  is  not  'on,'  although  he  is  sober  most 
of  the  time.  Leslie,  dear,  are  you  sure  it  helps  you 
to  have  me  tell  you  ail  this  ?" 

"Quite  sure,  quite  sure,  Don!  Thank  you,  my 
friend,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart!  I  know  what 
this  espionage  and  detective  work  must  have  cost 
a  man  like  you.  I  wish" — she  hesitated — "I  wish 
I  could  sutiliciently  thank  you!" 

Crowley  did  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  For  an 
instant  he  shartd  the  Count's  hope,  that  she  wanted 
to  be  sure  of  Tressidar's  unprincipled  course  be- 
fore taking  any  decided  steps  herself,  and  his  blood 
leaped  wildly  as  he  thought  of  a  possible  advantage 
to  himself.  But,  raising  his  eyes  suddenly,  he  saw 
her  gazing  at  a  photograph  of  her  husband,  and  in 
them  was  such  a  look  of  suffering,  of  anguish,  that 
he  rose  quietly  and  tiptoed  reverently  from  the 
room. 

For  some  moments  Leslie  sat  there,  and  came  to 
herself  suddenly,  realizing  that  Don  had  gone. 
Then,  with  heightened  color,  she  ran  quickly  up  the 
steps,  calling  Ceciley. 

"I  am  going  out,"  she  cried,  laughing  nervously, 
"and  I  shan't  be  home  to  dinner." 

The  maid  dressed  her  carefully,  joyfully. 

"She  has  got  good  news  of  him  at  last,"  she 
thought. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


183 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  bellboy  took  Mrs.  Tressidar's  card,  a  blank 
one  upon  which  was  written  a  couple  of  lines,  in 
Leslie's  firm  hand,  and  departed.  It  seemed  hours 
to  the  woman  waiting  before  the  elevator  door 
clicked  and  she  heard  the  unmistakable  and  inimit- 
able rustle  of  silk  skirts  in  the  corridor.  A  spark- 
ling vision  ran  into  the  room  and  into  her  arms. 

"Ah,  but  you  are  an  angel,"  it  gushed  volubly 
in  French.  "Of  course  I  knew  you  lived  here,  but, 
alas  for  my  poor  head!  I  had  forgotten  the  name 
of  your  husband.  What  is  it?  No  matter,  tell 
me  of  yourself.     Eh?" 

"How  long  can  you  spare  me,  alone  and  unin- 
terrupted?" was  Leslie's  serious,  surprising  ques- 
tion.    "I  have  much  to  say  to  you." 

Celeste  Mignon  held  her  guest  at  arms'  length, 
then  laughed  delightfully.  "Oh,  my  sweet,  I  have 
all  my  time  for  you.  Upstairs — pouf!"  she 
snapped  her  fingers — "there  is  a  pig  of  a  lover 
—or  one  who  would  like  to  be.  What  of  it — I 
will  get  rid  of  him  at  once,  and  we  will  go  to  my 
rooms  and  talk  until  I  have  to  go  to  satisfy  the 
hungry  mob  with  my  poor  performance." 

Felice,  the  estimable  maid  of  Mile.  Celeste  Mig- 


<84 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


i      ) 


: 


!^    t 


! 


4i 

If  '  i 

t  ■  ' 

; 


f 


i7 


non,  with  eye  and  ear  alternately  at  the  keyhole  of 
the  room  adjoining,  had  never  in  all  the  years  of 
her  efficient  service  seen  her  young  mistress  so 
deeply  affected,  and  she  greatly  feared  for  her  ap- 
pearance that  night.  "Tears  are  bad  for  the  ar- 
tiste," sagely  commented  Felice. 

"Ah,  but  yes,  my  darling,  it  shall  be  done.  To 
think  that  lying  pig  of  a  De  Vinville  never  told  me, 
and,  ah,  poor  me — how  could  I  know  ?  Say  again 
you  forgive  me,  or  I  shall  poison  myself." 

"Don't  talk  so,"  Leslie  replied,  unsteadily,  too. 
"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  unless  it  is  to  forgive 
him!    Only  help  me,  that  is  all  I  ask." 

While  she  was  speaking  she  took  her  own  card, 
which  Celeste  was  still  holding,  and  glanced  at  it, 
before  destroying  it. 

"Please  come  to  the  drawing-room  at  once,"  it 
said.  "I  am  an  old  friend  of  Angelique's,  and  must 
see  you.  Do  not  mention  this  to  the  person  with 
whom  you  talk,  as  you  love  your  sister."  Leslie 
had  relied  cleverly  upon  the  dramatic  instinct  ram- 
pant in  Celeste,  to  impel  her  to  carry  cut  these  di- 
rections to  the  letter,  and  she  read  the  girl  cor- 
rectly. 

"He  had  no  suspicion,"  shi  vowed  again,  "that 
I  swear!" 

"When  did  you  tell  him  to  come  back?" 

"I  said  after  the  performance  to  come,"  she 
paused,  "to  come,  as  usual,  to  my  dressing  room," 
Leslie's  white  face  smote  her  afresh.  "Oh,  blessed 
one,"  she  moaned,  sinking  to  her  knees,  "to  think 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


185 


it  is  your  husband  I  have  taken  away!  And  my 
Angie  loved  you  so!" 

"If  it  had  not  been  you,  it  would  probably  have 
been  some  one  else,"  Leslie  smiled  bravely,  "and 
then  this  chance  would  have  been  denied  me." 

"Yes,  surely  you  can  take  him  back  with  ease," 
the  actress  said  confidently,  "because — ^bah !  he  only 
loves  me  because  I  tease  him.  To-night  he  wanted 
me  to  go  with  him  to " 

"Hurry !"  interrupted  Leslie.  "Try  some  of  your 
things  on  me — suppose  they  should  not  fit!" 

"Of  course,  the  theatre  trunks  are  not  here,  but 
if  this  does" — slipping  a  house  gown  over  Leslie's 
head — "the  others  will  be  all  right." 

They  both  inspected  the  gown  carefully.  It 
looked  as  though  it  had  been  made  for  Leslie. 
"Good!"  cried  Celeste.  "Now  for  dinner,  and  the 
theatre  early.  I  will  coach  you,  there,  and  you  can 
watch  me  from  the  balcony  to-night.  To-morrow 
there  will  be  a  matinee  as  usual,  and  if  you  feel 
equal  you  can  go  on  then,  if  not,  wait  till  to- 
morrow night.     I  shall  not  see  him  again." 

They  ate  their  dinner  in  feverish  haste,  and 
started  immediately  for  the  theatre. 

On  the  way  there  Celeste  outlined  her  sketch  to 
the  woman  beside  her.  It  was  a  clever  little  play, 
in  which  many  persons  were  impersonated,  requir- 
ing a  constant  and  rapid  change  of  costume.  In 
each  of  these  creations  the  adored  Celeste  was 
greeted  with  louder  applause  than  the  last,  and 
when  she  finally  appeared  in  amazingly  scant  at- 


i86 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


tire  and  commenced  a  slow  and  sensuous  dance,  the 
audience  went  mad,  standing  up  in  their  seats  and 
screaming  at  the  top  of  their  lungs. 

"They  remind  me  of  hungry  wolves,"  she  said  to 
Leslie,  "with  their  tongues  sticking  out,  and  their 
hands  like  claws,  stretched  out  to  me.  Sometimes 
I  hate  them  all." 


11 


"Wonderful,  my  darling!"  the  excitable  little 
creature  said  between  laugliter  and  sobs.  "Splen- 
didly done!  You  know  the  lines  already.  You 
have  only  to  try  the  business  once  or  twice  more, 
and  then  do  what  you  please,  for  the  dance.  Felice 
will  dress  you,  just  as  she  does  me — and  after  to- 
night me — I  go  to  the  country  for  a  week." 

"Oh,  Celeste,  you  are  good,  good,"  Leslie  kissed 
her  gratefully.  "Are  you  sure  you  won't  get  into 
any  trouble?" 

The  other  snapped  her  fingers.  "What  trouble 
can  I  get  into?  The  management  can't  know  the 
difference,  and,  anyway,  it  is  only  the  crowd  they 
want.  Felice  can  be  trusted,  and  you  have  your 
own  game  to  play  outside.  Come,  let  us  make  up. 
I  will  get  you  some  black  wigs  to  try." 

The  star's  dressing  room  was  heavy  with  the 
scent  of  flowers.  Roses,  violets,  orchids,  and  car- 
nations vied  with  each  other  in  claiming  her  at- 
tention, but  she  brushed  carelessly  by  the  vases,  and 
sat  Leslie  down  in  front  of  a  silver  laden  dressing 
table.     With  a  keen  scrutiny  at  her  face,  and  that 


i 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


i8Z 


of  her  guest,  she  began  touching  Leslie  here  and 
there  with  the  rabbit's  foot,  puff,  and  black  pen- 
cil. As  a  finishing  touch  she  laid  a  glossy  wig  over 
her  fair  hair. 

"Voila,"  she  cried,  "which  is  you  and  which  is 
me?" 

The  resemblance  was  remarkable,  with  the  aid 
of  pencils  and  the  wig.  Leslie  laughed  excitedly, 
for  an  instant  forgetting  the  serious  reason  for  the 
masquerade. 

"Celeste,"  she  suddenly  went  white  under  her 
rouge.     "I  am  afraid!" 

"Tut,  tut!"  answered  the  other;  "come  out  on 
the  stage;  we  may  meet  some  one  and  see  whether 
or  not  you  have  anything  to  fear."  True,  they  met 
several  of  the  artists,  each  of  whom  gave  an  envi- 
ous and  respectful  salutation  to  Leslie,  while  the 
person  for  whom  they  were  intended  crept  into 
a  shadow  and  was  taken  for  the  maid,  if  noticed 
at  all. 

Later,  Leslie  went  out  in  the  house  and  watched 
breathlessly  the  role  she  was  going  to  play. 

On  the  stage,  Celeste  dragged  through  her  part, 
to  the  horror  of  the  management  and  Felice,  and 
to  the  consternation  of  Tressidar,  who  also  watched 
her  eagerly. 

She  reminded  him  of  some  one  at  times,  partic- 
ularly to-night  when  her  smile  had  a  tinge  of  sad- 
ness in  it,  and  her  eyes  were  grave  though  her 
red  lips  were  parted  as  she  caught  his  feverish 
glance,  fleetingly. 


t 


'!•"« 


V      \ 


iJ 


U 


i,  ! 


?  ^ 


Hi 


',1 


i88 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


In  spite  of  coaxing  and  storming,  Tressidar  was 
not  admitted  to  the  dressing  room  that  night,  and 
from  his  post  at  the  stage  entrance  he  saw  three 
women  enter  Mile.  Mignon's  cab,  and  drive  rap- 
idly away.  The  telephone  was  answered  bv  Fe- 
lice, who  assured  Monsieur  that  Mademoiselle  was 
very  ill,  and  asked  him  please  not  to  disturb  her. 

In  the  hotel  Mile.  Celeste  and  Madame  were 
again  holding  serious  parley,  and  finally  Felice 
jumped  with  surprise  at  the  astounding  command 
she  received. 

"I  am  going  away  for  a  day  or  so,  and  you  will 
stay  here,  Felice.  Madame  is  to  take  my  place 
entirely.  See  that  you  help  her  all  you  can — and 
keep  your  mouth  shut  tight.     Understand?" 

The  two  women  clung  to  each  other  a  moment  in 
silence. 

"Courage,  petite!"  whispered  one  of  them,  walk- 
ing dramatically  out  into  the  night. 


r' ' 


I 


'V; 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


189 


CHAPTER  V. 

During  the  following  morning  letters,  flowers, 
messages  of  all  kinds  beat  an  incessant  tattoo  upon 
Mademoiselle's  door.  Most  of  these  were  from 
Tressidar,  demanding  a  hearing  some  time  before 
evening.  Finally  Leslie  became  bold,  and,  hand- 
ing a  slip  of  paper  to  the  maid,  she  bade  her  write : 

"You  may  come  to  the  dressing  room  after  the 
matinee.  C.  M." 

"Does  he  know  her  writing?"  she  asked,  in  sud- 
den alarm. 

"Mais  non,  madame.  Mademoiselle  she  would 
not  take  the  trouble  to  write  so  much.  She  either 
pays  no  attention  or  sends  a  telegram." 

Arrived  at  the  theatre,  veiled  heavily,  Leslie 
found  every  one  solicitous  regarding  her  health, 
which  she  assured  them  all  to-day  was  quite  re- 
stored. Her  French,  almost  perfect,  interspersed 
with  broken  English,  was  a  marvelous  imitation  of 
the  Mignon's,  and  throughout  the  whole  afternoon 
everything  went  well.  The  performance  itself  was 
a  perfect  success,  and  Felice  experienced  an  in- 
stant's jealous  pang  that  her  mistress  should  have 
so  adaptable  an  understudy.  Leslie's  dance,  if  any- 
thing, surpassed  the  other,  the  music  went  to  her 


•^! 


190 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


It  1 


It 


11 
1* 


head  like  wine,  the  applause  stimulated  her  to 
greater  efforts,  and  Mgy's  dark,  attentive  face 
set'tned  everywhere  in  tlie  house.  Time  after  time 
her  eyes  were  drawn  back  to  his,  though  she  had  not 
meant  to  look,  and  she  saw  with  consternation  that 
toward  tlie  last  he  was  so  restless  as  to  be  almost 
unable  to  keep  his  seat. 

Hardly  had  she  changed  when  he  rapped  at  the 

door. 

Leslie's  heart  stood  still  as  she  signalled  the  maid 
to  turn  off  a  bunch  of  lights. 

"Daring!"  the  man  brcatlicd,  trembling  with 
passion,  "you  were  supurl>  tl-.is  afternoon— better 
than  ever.'  Oh,  how  proud  I  was  of  you,  and  how 
jealous,  too,"  he  added,  whimsically  rubbing  his 
face  against  hers,  "to  think  that  all  those  other  peo- 
ple even  had  the  chance  of  loving  you!  I  want 
you  all  to  myself." 

Leslie  laughed  and  drew  away  slightly.  Her 
eyebrows  and  lashes  were  very  much  blackened, 
shading  her  eyes  so  tliat  they  looked  dark  and 
gleaming.  She  closed  them  slightly,  and  looked 
keenly  at  him.  liiere  was  a  hungry  look  upon  his 
face,  which  at  the  same  time  disgusted  and  thrilled 
her,  and  she  found  it  desperately  hard  to  realize 
that  she  was  some  one  else  for  the  moment. 

"Scely  boy,"  she  whispered. 

Oblivious' to  the  maid,  whom  Leslie  feh  was 
watching  them  surreptitiously,  Tressidar  caught  the 
girl  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  long,  full  on  her  red 
lips. 


:! 


<    ! 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


191 


$1 


"Say  you'll  come  to  me,"  he  whispered  hotly. 
Say  it,  darling!" 

Leslie  lay  in  his  arms  a  moment,  and  closed  her 
eyes;  then  she  suddenly,  petulantly,  pushed  him 
away. 

"I  hate  you,  you  crush  my  hair!"  she  pouted. 

They  dined  together,  in  Celeste's  rooms;  Tressi- 
dar  took  her  to  the  theatre,  and  waited  with  fe- 
verish impatience  for  the  close  of  the  performance. 
He  had  kept  distressingly  sober — this  distraction 
was  sufficient.  He  did  not  often  want  a  woman 
and  whisky  at  the  same  time. 

"You  are  coming  to  my  rooms  to-night,"  he 
said  to  her,  as  Leslie  put  the  finishing  touches  to 
her  street  costume. 

"Your  rooms!"  Leslie  repeated,  aghast.  Her 
thoughts  flew  to  her  own  home,  and  for  an  instant 
she  forgot  the  part  she  played.     "Your  home?" 

"Why,  certainly,  my  home,"  answered  the  man, 
puzzled.  "You  realize  that  I  have  to  live  some- 
where, don't  you?" 

His  light  tone  gave  her  food  for  reflection,  fleet- 
ing though  it  was,  and  she  divined  what  kind  of  a 
home  Algy  meant. 

A  wild  curiosity  surged  over  her  to  see  him 
stripped  of  respectabiHty  in  "his  home,"  so  she 
raised  her  chin  ever  so  little  and  wh'spered : 

"You  are  a  ver'  naughty  boy !" 

They  drove  to  a  handsome  house,  which  seemed 
to  contain  five  apartments.    A  man  opened  the  door 


192 


THE  WINNING  C  \ME 


i,  ■ 


:  3" 


1: 


I 


and  bowed  deferentially  as  they  passed  through  the 
•rather  dimly  lighted  hall. 

Algy  led  the  way  to  the  elevator.  The  stillness 
was  oppressive,  and  Leslie's  teeth  chattered, 
though  not  with  cold.  Suddenly  the  realization 
of  the  game  she  played  came  to  her,  and  she  turned 
faint.  What  wr.s  the  end  going  to  be?  If  Algy 
found  her  out — what  then?    If  not — what  then? 

"Here  we  are!"  His  voice  behind  her,  had  a 
strange  exultant  ring,  and  she  turned,  half  fright- 
ened, to  him." 

"I  don't  t'ink  I  want  to  go,"  she  murmured, 
drawing  back. 

"You  cruel  littie  tease,"  he  took  her  forcibly  in 
his  arms  and  pushed  her  into  the  room,  then  closed 
the  door  with  an  ominous  click.    They  were  alone. 

"I  see  we  have  a  bite  of  supper  ready,"  Algy 
was  saying,  with  a  laughable  housewifely  pride. 
"Come,  Mignon,  and  let  us  be  happy — for  to-mor- 
row  " 


*Yes,"  she  whispered,  "to-morrow- 


Tres- 


"There  is  no  to-morrow  where  you  are!' 
sidar  cried.     "Let  it  always  be  to-night." 

Presently  she  calmed  him  "Sufficiently  to  persuade 
him  to  eat  a  little  of  the  supper  prepared  for  them. 
He  ate  to  please  her,  pretending  to  be  horrified  at 
her  voracious  appetite.  But  he  drank  more  than 
was  good  for  him,  and  very  soon  showed  the  eflect 
of  the  wine.  He  could  not  let  her  alone,  insist- 
ing that  she  should  sit  on  his  knee  and  finish  her 
..supper,  he  kept  his  hands  constantly  on  her  heavy 


. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


193 


black  wig,  and  rubbed  his  lips  reslessly  over  her 
bare  shoulders. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Celeste?"  he  asked,  again  and 
again. 

"Mais,  non!"  Leslie  answered  each  time.  "You 
are  a — ^how  do  you  say — a  bully." 

"Only  because  I  love  you  so.  Listen,  never  in 
all  my  life  have  I  gone  absolutely  crazy  about  a 
woman,  as  I  am  about  you ;  do  you  know  what  that 
means?  Do  you?"  he  asked  again,  giving  her  a 
little  shake. 

"How  do  I  know?"  the  woman  answered  provo- 
catively. "I  don't  know  you,  who  are  your  frien's 
or  anysing.  For  all  I  know  you  may  be  marry  wir 
some  lovely  girl." 

It  was  a  bold  stroke,  but  Tressidar  was  equal 

to  it. 

"Let  us  not  speak  of  me,  dear  one,"  he  mur- 
mured, pulling  her  head  back  on  his  arm  and  lay- 
ing his  lips  full  upon  hers,  "let  us  speak  of  you. 
Will  you  come  to  me?" 

"del,  non,  I  tell  you!  Stay  in  dis  noisy  New 
York  just  for  you!" 

"God,  don't  speak  to  me  like  that,  Celeste,"  he 
cried,  drawing  her  roughly  to  him,  "you  shall  come, 
I  say — I  want  you!" 

Leslie  struggled  a  moment.  Uppermost  was  the 
fear  that  her  wig  would  get  dislodged,  and  Algy 
would  discover  the  fraud.  She  thought  of  the  Eng- 
lish boy,  beating  on  her  door,  crying :  "Drag  her  I 
I  will  have  her !" 


194 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


,u 


(,  " 


"You  are  hurt  me,"  she  moaned,  with  half-closed 
eyes  and  lips  apart.     "Don't  Elgy!" 

"Kiss  me,"  he  murmured.  "Kiss  me,  and  kiss 
me,  and  kiss  me!" 

As  he  again  laid  his  lips  on  hers  a  revulsion  of 
feeling  surged  over  Leslie,  and  she  bit  him  hard. 

With  a  cry  Tressidar  struggled  to  his  feet,  still 
holding  her  almost  powerless  in  his  grasp. 

"You  are  mine,"  he  muttered,  hoarsely  through 
clenched  teeth,  and  the  look  of  passion  combined 
with  drink,  made  i-eslie  deathly  ill.  "You  are 
mine,  this  instant,  and  always!  Some  men  win 
through  love,  some  through  conquest,  and  the  lat- 
ter course  is  surest.     Conquest  for  me !" 

His  words  fell  thickly,  but  with  hideous  import. 
The  time  of  their  childhood  quarrel  occurred  to  her 
in  exaggerated  manner — she  could  hear  the  boy's 
voice  trembling  with  passion,  screaming:  "Drag 
her,  drag  her!" 

"Let  me  go,"  cried  the  girl,  frightened  at  the 
certainty  of  her  own  illness.    Algy!" 

As  he  dragged  her  to  him  with  brutal  rough- 
ness, too  intoxicated  to  stand,  he  stumbled,  and 
partly  loosened  his  hold.  The  woman  fell  limp  and 
inert  against  the  corner  of  the  table  causing  a  crash 
of  china  and  glass.  She  lay  motionless  on  the  floor, 
her  cheeks  showing  white  and  pinched  under  the 
rouge,  her  eyes,  darkened  artificially,  showed  piti- 
ful shadows  of  their  own,  and  underneath  a  mass 
of  inky  curls  peeped  out  a  strand  of  sun-kissed 
hair. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


195 


Algy,  fascinated,  stooped  unsteadily  closer,  then 
sank  trembling  to  his  knees.  With  shaking  fingers 
he  pulled  the  wig  aside,  and  stared. 

"My  God!"  he  gasped.  "Lit'le  Lady,  's  you? 
My  God,  what  have  I  done?" 


196 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


>^ 


CHAPTER  VI. 


Ik'i.1 


U%  ( 


Clara  Bryce  was  pronounced  hopelessly  insane, 
and  sent  to  an  asylum  at  Walter's  request. 

Since  Miss  Libby's  death  some  weeks  earlier,  the 
lonely  sister  had  a  hard  struggle  w^ith  Clara  and 
the  children  both  to  care  for.  Miss  Libby  had  been 
such  a  help,  so  loving  and  thoughtful;  Miss  Polly 
had  usually  attended  to  the  cares  of  housekeeping 
entirely,  and  the  preparing  of  such  odd  dishes  as 
appealed  to  Clara's  wavering  fancy;  Miss  Libby 
took  charge  of  the  children  and  kept  a  patient 
watch  over  their  erratic  mother.  Yet  patient  soul 
that  she  was,  Miss  Polly  wept  bitterly  at  having  to 
pait  with  any  of  her  burden,  for  that  Clara  cer- 
tainly was. 

Vera  Burnley  came  to  see  her  the  afternoon  that 
Clara  left. 

"Miss  Polly,  I  want  you  to  let  me  have  at  least 
one  of  the  children  to  take  back  to  the  country  with 
me,  until  things  get  adjusted  a  little  more  smoothly, 
^'on't  you?" 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  Miss  Polly  almost  gasped,  and 
iingered  the  hem  of  her  handkerchief  nervously, 
■"I  am  so  grateful  to  you,  but  really — well,  you  see 
the  truth  is,  that  little  Walter  has  a  cold,  and 


i 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


197 


Clarie  is  so  particular  about  the  way  her  food  is 
made,  almost  worse  than  Clara.  I  don't  believe  she 
would  really  benefit  by  the  change;  and,  of  course^ 
the  baby  is  out  of  the  question;  so  Vera,  my  dear,. 
I  don't  see  how  I  could  spare  any  of  them." 

T^or  once  Miss  Polly  was  selfish,  her  heart  was  so 
b'.ised  by  the  events — the  losses  of  the  last  few 
weeks,  she  could  not  bear  to  part  with  any  of  the 
children  whom  she  held  so  dear. 

"Then  come  yourself  and  bring  them!"  Vera 
clapped  her  hands  with  the  joyful  abandonment  of 
a  happy  child.  She  was  the  kind  of  person  who 
made  the  fallacious  fountain  of  youth  a  glorious 
reality. 

"Oh,  Vera,"  Miss  Polly  half  reeled  at  the  sug- 
gestion; to  be  away  in  the  country  at  Vera's  beau- 
tiful home  and  with  the  dear  children — it  was  like 
a  dream!  Suddenly,  she  checked  herself  and  the 
light  died  out  of  her  face. 

"No,  I  cannot  do  that,  either,  though  you  can 
never  know  how  I  appreciate  your  kindness,  Vera, 
dear.  You  see" — she  lowered  her  voice  from  habit 
— "you  see,  there  is  Walter." 

Mrs.  George  Burnley  boldly  snorted. 

"Miss  Polly,"  she  exclaimed  impatiently,  "what 
of  it?  You  don't  do  him  any  good  by  staying;  in 
fact,  perhaps  he  would  be  glad  to  have  the  house 
all  to  himself — quiet,  you  know,"  she  added  hastily, 
warned  by  the  look  on  Miss  Bryce's  face. 

"No,  no,  you  are  wrong!  Walter  likes  to  have 
us  here,  and  I  know  he  would  miss  us,  especially 


198 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


i 


r,  I 


the  children,  he  is  very  fond  of  the  children,  you 
know,"  she  said,  with  averted  eyes,  stroking  the 
baby's  hair. 

"But  Miss  Polly,  think  of  the  immense  benefit 
to  all  of  you.    Please  come!" 

"I  really  couldn't  leave  Walter,  my  love.  You 
see,"  she  hesitated  again,  and  a  painful  flush  crept 
over  her  delicate  skin;  Vera  wondered  what  was 
coming.  One  could  always  double  Miss  Polly's 
words,  then  multiply  them  by  three  times  the  wick- 
edness and  still  not  have  the  sum  total  of  Walter's 
villiany.  She  knew  from  George  that  quite  lately 
he  had  stolen  some  of  his  aunt's  silver,  and  sold  it. 

"You  see,"  Miss  Polly  said,  "he  seems  to  have 
become  rather  infatuated — of  course,  for  the  mo- 
ment only — with  an  actress."  Her  voice  dropped 
still  lower,  and  she  drew  the  baby,  seated  on  her 
lap,  close  to  her  with  a  sweet  protective  gesture. 
.Vera  nodded  sympathetically. 

"She  is  the  understudy,  I  believe  that  is  what 
you  call  them,  to  that  woman  who  set  New  York 
crazy  some  weeks  ago." 

"Celeste?"  asked  Vera,  in  astonishment. 

Miss  Polly  nodded.  "At  first  he  was  quite  in- 
sane about  her,  but  after  she  had  the  quarrel  with 
her  managers  or  whatever  it  was,  and  left  the 
country,  Walter  veered  around  to  the  new  one. 
You  know,  my  dear,  he  really  is  nothing  but  a 
boy,"  she  plead  for  him  apologetically. 

There  was  silence. 

"Do  you  think  she  would  marry  him?"  asked 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


199 


Miss  Polly  at  last  in  trembling  tones,  "they  some- 
times are  very  glad  to  make  respectable  matches." 

With  difficulty  Vera  kept  composed.  At  first  she 
wanted  to  make  an  indignant  protest,  then  she 
wanted  to  laugh,  and  finally  she  wanted  very  much 
to  cry.  Marry  Walter  Bryce  to  make  a  respectable 
match.    Oh.  Oh! 

"No,  Miss  Polly,  I  am  sure  she  won't,  don't 
worry  a  tiny  bit,  there's  a  dear." 

"You  are  such  a  comfort,  Vera,  and  how  much 
like  poor  Leslie  you  are !  You  see,  I  thought  par- 
ticularly of  the  dear  children.  Have  you  seen  Les- 
lie, lately?  She  has  not  been  here  for  some  time, 
and  I  really  don't  care  about  going  there." 

Miss  Polly  and  her  sister  had  never  been  able  to 
reconcile  themselves  to  Leslie's  marriage  with 
"that  Mr.  Tressidar,"  laying  the  entire  blame  upon 
him  for  Walter's  wayward  course.  And,  perhaps, 
they  were  right,  too ;  certainly  he  had  not  a  restrain- 
ing influence,  and  whenever  the  siren  called  and 
Algy  wanted  "to  drink,"  he  was  always  sure  of  r 
companion  in  young  Bryce. 

"I  am  going  to  see  Leslie  now,"  Vera  said,  ris- 
ing. "Are  you  sure  you  won't  change  your  mind 
and  come,  all  or  some  of  you?" 

"Quite  sure,  dearie,  just  now,"  replied  the  other, 
kissing  her  affectionately.  "But  thank  you  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and  please  give  poor  Les- 
lie my  love." 

Vera  got  into  her  car  slowly,  she  was  genuinely 
disappointed  at  Miss  Polly's  refusal,  and  was  half 


cll^ 


m 


V 


200 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


f 


I'' 


m 


f 


I* 


1'^ 


debating  whether  to  ask  Walter  for  the  sake  of  the 
others,  or  not.  "I  think  I  had  better  wait  and  ask 
George,"  she  said  to  herself,  frowning.  "To  Miss 
Crowley's  first." 

Margaret  was  at  home  busily  engaged  in  writ- 
ing a  paper  for  Herbert  Carter.  She  looked  up, 
smiling  as  Vera  unceremoniously  entered  her  study, 
and  laid  the  sheets  of  paper  aside. 

"This  is  a  pleasant  surprise,"  she  said,  kissing 
her  guest. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  That  seems  to  be  my 
vocation — ^being  a  surprise  to  my  friends.  It  is  just 
as  well,  I  don't  complain.  Will  you  come  over  to 
Leslie's  with  me,  Margaret?  I  haven't  seen  her 
for  an  age?" 

"I  can't  very  well  go  this  afternoon,"  Miss  Crow- 
ley answered,  "this  paper  must  be  finished  to-night, 
for  Mr.  Carter  wants  me  to  read  it,  before  a  meet- 
ing to-morrow.  Would  you  and  Leslie  not  like 
to  come?  I  should  like  Mr.  Tressidar  to  come, 
too" — she  stopped  and  busied  herself  with  the 
papers  a  moment — "if  by  any  chance  it  should  ap- 
peal to  him,  he  might  derive  some  help  from  it. 
I  have  always  claimed  that  the  main  trouble  with 
men  of  his  type  is  a  lack  of  occupation.  He  needs 
good,  wholesome  work." 

"I  should  love  hearing  you  'speak  a  piece,'  Mar- 
garet," cried  the  guest  enthusiastically,  "simply 
love  it !  I  imagine  that  you  done  up  in  tartan  skirts 
with  a  wreath  of  daisies  on  your  hair,  saying, 
'You  can  scarce  expect  one  of  my  age  to  speak 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


201 


in  public,  on  the  stage,' "  she  laughed  delightedly. 
"I  remember  at  Madame's,  you  always  chose  frivol- 
ous selections,  such  as  Grey's  Elegy,  and  that  thing 
of  Scott's,  'Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead,' 
or  'Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest.'  Heavens,  Mar- 
garet Crowley,  I  can't  see  why  you  don't  sink  a 
crushed  and  mangled  heap,  under  your  own  serious- 
ness." 

Margaret  smiled  almost  wanly.  "I  have  always 
wished  to  be  like  you  and  Leslie,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  Leslie,"  Vera  exclaimed.  "Dear  knows, 
she  would  have  gone  crazy,  I  expect,  if  she  had 
not  been  endowed  with  the  gift  of  frivolity.  That 
is  the  worst  of  caring  so  much  for  a  man.  Of 
course,  you  can't  understand  that  Margaret,  espe- 
cially in  the  case  of  Algy  Tressidar.  I  know  you 
well  enough  though  to  appreciate  your  views  on  the 
subject — you  are  so  good  and  lofty." 

And  because  she  was  engrossed  as  usual,  in  her 
own  happy  thoughts,  she  did  not  see  the  peculiar 
look  which  came  over  Margaret  Crowley's  face  at 
the  mention  of  his  name,  nor  did  she  note  anything 
out  of  the  ordinary  in  her  voice,  as  she  answered: 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  I" 


202 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


CHAPTER  VII. 


m\  I 


■"■  I 


.il-i 


There  are  some  houses  which,  when  nicely  deco- 
rated and  furnished,  remain  the  same  to  all  be- 
holders, and  under  all  conditions.  If  they  are  of 
the  large,  commodious,  simply  elegant  variety,  any 
"dressing  up"  appears  bizarre  and  out  of  place, 
and  additional  elegance  destroys  the  artistic  sim- 
plicity so  desirable. 

If  they  are  of  the  light,  airy,  and  beruffled 
variety,  great  care  must  be  observed  lest  they  as- 
sume an  overdressed  and  shoddy  appearance.  There 
is  a  kind  of  house,  however,  which  has  possibili- 
ties. It  strikes  the  happy  medium  between  these 
two.  Wise  young  brides  with  artistic  proclivities, 
also  economic,  seek  diligently  for  a  house  which, 
in  its  simplicity  is  attractive  and  comfortable,  but 
which  responds  feelingly  to  any  additional  touches. 

At  Christmas,  when  John  sends  home  a  Chippen- 
dale table  and  a  few  odd  brasses,  the  drawing- 
room,  looks,  feels  better,  though  it  had  not  looked 
bare  before,  and  it  does  not  look  cluttered  now.  A 
vase  of  flowers  in  the  living  room  gives  it  quite  a 
different  air,  a  new  picture  seems  to  call  attention 
to  its  presence,  as  a  handsome  piece  of  fur,  often 
makes  a  woman's  costume. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


203 


Leslie  Tressidar  greatly  resembled  this  sort  of 
a  house.  Every  "fixing"  told.  Angelique  Bra- 
bazon  had  once  said  that  there  was  no  limit  to  her 
attractiveness  for  each  touch  enhanced  it,  distract- 
ingly.  Just  when  she  thought  herself  fully  dressed, 
and  well  groomed,  it  occurred  to  her  that  the  angle 
of  her  hat  might  be  improved,  or  the  position  of  a 
spot  in  her  veil  changed  to  advantage,  or  the  height 
of  a  collar  lessened. 

It  was  astonishing  but  true  that  she  responded  to 
every  care,  given  herself.  And  for  that  reason, 
Ceciley  was  invaluable.  Leslie  might  have  grown 
careless,  and  relaxed  her  constant  attention  in  little 
things.  But  Ceciley  never  allowed  l^er  mistress  to 
simply  put  her  clothes  on;  that  was  the  least  part 
of  Leslie's  dressing.  In  another  woman  this  extra 
fussing  would  have  made  no  difference,  would  have 
given  no  results,  in  Leslie,  it  made  her. 

Osmonde,  the  modiste,  had  once  said,  "Mile. 
Loring  has  the  making  of  a  good  figure,"  and  Ceci- 
ley remembered  that.  Certainly  in  the  two  weeks 
after  Leslie's  mad  trick  she  worked  as  hard  as 
ever  in  her  life  to  keep  her  looking  well.  Lying 
white  and  weak  in  bed,  haunted  by  the  fear  that 
Algy  would  think  her  ugly,  unattractive,  she  taxed 
her  maid's  patience  and  ingenuity  to  the  utmost. 

"Can't  you  bring  me  something  more  becoming, 
Ceciley?  Just  see  how  deathly  white  I  look,  and 
my  hair  seems  to  be  all  on  one  side.  Pull  it  out,  or 
push  it  in,  put  a  black  patch  on  or  do  something! 
Don't  let  me  look  a  fright,  for  Heaven's  sake!" 


204 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


And  at  last  Ceciley,  in  desperation,  answered : 

"Well,  you  are  sick,  Miss  Leslie,  that  makes  the 
diflFerence!  People  don't  usually  look  the  same 
when  they  are  sick  as  when  they  are  well." 

"Oh,  there  is  the  fatal  point,  my  dear,"  answered 
Alg>''s  wife  sadly.  "They  let  tlicmselves  look  sick, 
almost  repulsive;  because  they  feel  weak,  or  arc 
suffering,  they  expect  others  to  know  how  they 
feel,  by  the  way  tliey  look,  and  by  looking  ill,  they 
elicit  sympathy  and  affection.  It  is  a  mistake. 
People  are  drawn  to  pretty  things,  not  white,  wan, 
weak,  and  puny  ones.  I,  myself,  as  sympathetic  as 
I  am,  want  to  hurry  l:y  the  cots  in  a  hospital,  whose 
patients  look  as  though  tliey  were  at  death's  door. 
I  am  so  sorry  tliat  I  ache  for  them,  and  duly  show 
my  suffering,  not  sympathy  or  cheerfulness — I  am 
afraid  of  them — afraid  tiiat  I  won't  be  tender 
enough — I  infect  them  with  nervousness.  I  don't 
want  to  look  ill,  do  you  hear — Mr.  Tressidar  would 
be  bored  to  death,  if  he  thougiit  I  were  really  ill." 

The  maid  kept  silent,  she  feared  her  mistress  was 
correct,  though  so  far  Algy  had  not  seemed  bored. 
Since  the  night  he  brought  her  home  in  his  arms, 
he  had  been  more  like  a  lover  than  since  the  first 
month  of  his  marriage.  He  spent  most  of  his  time 
in  Leslie's  room,  and  was  untiring  in  his  attentions. 
They  had  talked  long  and  earnestly  almost  the 
whole  of  the  following  day,  and  many  times  Ceci- 
ley had  heard  him  say,  "If  I  only  knew  you  would 
forgive  me.  Little  Lady — if  I  only  could  feel  it.  I 
was  utterly  mad,  mad!" 


in 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


205 


Sometimes  he  would  sit  beside  her  on  the  bed, 
silent,  his  arm  about  her,  his  cheek  against  her 
hair.  Then  suddenly  with  a  motion  of  fierceness, 
he  would  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  and  murmur : 

"To  think  I  might  have  lost  you — my  brave, 
plucky,  Little  Lady!" 

And  Leslie,  panting  and  white,  lay  perfectly  still, 
with  a  divine  happiness  writien  plainly  on  her  pale 
face. 

When  she  felt  able  to  get  up,  Ceciley  and  Loring 
went  to  Edgeville  and  Algy  suggested  a  trip  on  the 
continent,  "a  real  honeymoon,"  he  said,  but  Les- 
lie, for  some  reason,  did  not  seem  anxious  to  go. 
So  they  stayed  on  in  town,  thinking  each  day  that 
they  would  come  r,ome  decision,  the  next.  Al- 
though she  said  no  Ang  to  her  husband,  Leslie  felt 
at  times,  seriously  alarme'i  about  her  condition. 
The  pain  about  her  heart  was  frightful,  contract- 
ing her  features,  sometimes,  and  causing  a  faintness 
quite  as  bad  as  that  which  came  with  the  other 
sort  of  illness.  Her  eyes  naturally  large,  looked 
uncanny  and  unearthly,  shadowed  by  such  dark 
circles  as  now  surrounded  them.  Her  lips  usually 
red  and  full,  seemed  shrunken  and  colorless  and 
worse,  they  seemed  to  have  a  blue  look  around 
them.    So  one  afternoon  she  sent  for  a  physician. 

After  a  careful  examination  he  looked  at  her 
curiously. 

"Have  you  had  a  fall  recently,  Mrs.  Tressidar?" 
he  asked. 


^^iM 


lii 


t 


t 


i'^ 


V 


206 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


"A  fall?"  she  repeated.    "Why,  no,  not  that  I 
know  of." 
"You  have  not  struck  you  side,  then,  in  any  way  ?" 

Suddenly  she  remembered  that  night,  downtown 
with  Algy.  The  picture  of  the  softly  lighted  room, 
the  glittering  table,  his  own  face,  came  vividly  to 
her,  and  she  lived  again  through  a  moment  of 
deadly  nausea  and  faintness. 

"Yes,  I  do  remember  falling,"  she  said  slowly. 
"I  struck  myself  against  the  corner  of  a  table  when 
I  fainted." 

"Oh !"  The  doctor's  tone  was  intended  to  imply 
merely,  "I  thought  something  of  the  kind  must 
have  happened,"  but  it  implied  all  of  that  and  a 
great  deal  more  to  his  patient's  sensitive  ears. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  Dr.  Graham,"  said  Leslie, 
laying  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "You  physicians  have 
grave  responsibilities,  I  know,  but  you  can  hardly 
decide  a  woman's  future,  can  you  ?  You  can  hardly 
feel  it  right  to  hide  from  a  thinking  person  some- 
thing which  they  should  know,  can  you?  Now,  if 
you  don't  tell  me  truthfully,  what  I  ask  you,  per- 
haps you  may  do  me  more  harm,  in  giving  my 
imagination  free  scope  to  conjure  up  what  horrors 
it  will,  for  I  know  something  serious  is  the  matter. 
Will  you  tell  me  what  it  is?" 

"Child,"  answered  the  man  kindly,  "you  have 
spoken  very  wisely.  It  is  often  a  problem  to  know 
just  how  much  to  tell  a  person,  and  how  little. 
Knowing  you  as  I  do — I  waive  my  responsibility 
in  this  instance  and  put  it  all  on  your  shoulders. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


207 


my  dear."  He  cleared  his  throat.  "Apparently, 
you  have  what  we  call  pulmonary  oedema,  as  a  re- 
sult of  broken  compensation  of  the  heart.  It  has 
been  caused  by  a  severe  bruise.  A  fall,  such  as  you 
describe,  would  cause  it." 

"And "  Leslie  suggested. 

"Well,  that  is  all." 

"Oh,  no,  you  have  left  out  the  most  important 
thing.     How  long  have  I  to  live?" 

The  doctor  looked  at  the  face  before  him,  glow- 
ing softly  in  it's  golden  frame.  He  looked  about 
the  luxurious  surroundings.  Leslie  was  always 
luxurious;  the  girls  at  Madame's  used  to  say  she 
looked  as  though  she  had  been  born  in  a  pair  of 
fine  silk  stockings  with  a  package  of  delicate  sachet 
in  one  hand,  and  a  piece  of  expensive  jewelry  in 
the  other.  The  costly  things  of  life  seemed  to  be 
a  part  of  her,  carriages,  servants,  fine  raiment  and 
the  like. 

He  remembered  her  as  a  young  girl,  her  glowing 
health,  her  radiant  vitality,  and  his  mind  quickly 
skimmed  these  past  years,  since  her  marriage.  Not 
what  he  would  call  "broken,"  he  grasped  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  present  nervousness,  as  it  told  upon 
her  looks  and  movements.  There  was  such  a  vast 
difference  between  the  impulsive  exuberance  of  long 
ago  and  the  spasmodic  effort  toward  animation 
now ;  such  a  difference  between  tlie  calmness  which 
comes  of  a  peace  and  satisfaction  with  life  and 
living,  and  the  strained  effort  for  self-control.    Dr. 


208 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


Graham  knew  from  Miss  Polly  Bryce  something 
of  Leslie's  trial. 

Looking  around  the  room  and  back  to  the  ear- 
nest face  confronting  him.  he  coughed  slightly  be- 
hind his  hand,  said,  "pardon  mc,"  and  relapsed  into 
silence. 

"Well?" 

"One  can't  say  just  how  long  anything,  my 
dear,"  he  heard  his  own  voice  speaking  in  tones  of 
forced  carelessness,  "Perhaps  a  year " 

"A  year?"  The  words  were  echoed  almost 
gladly.  There  would  be  a  year  of  such  joy,  ahead ! 
A  whole  year  in  which  to  watch,  to  glory  in,  Algy's 
complete  reform.  For,  had  he  not  sworn  a  solemn 
oath,  in  broken-hearted  seriou.  ncss,  that  as  long  as 
he  lived  he  would  never  touch  another  drop  of  any- 
thing intoxicating?  He  had  never  gone  that  far 
before,  he  never  seemed  so  much  in  earnest,  and 
Leslie  believed  in  him.  This  time  he  wanted  to 
stop.  "Oh,  I  was  afraid  you  would  say  a  month," 
she  said,  in  an  explanatory  manner ;  and  the  doctor, 
feeling  that  he  gazed  upon  something  almost  sacred, 
did  not  tell  Mrs.  Tressidar,  he  had  intended  to  say, 
"A  year — more  or  less." 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


209* 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Vera  stayed  all  night  in  town,  so  that  she  and 
Leslie  could  hear  Margaret*s  paper,  on  the  follow- 
ing day.  Sitting  in  the  crowded  hall,  they  were  re- 
minded of  the  afternoon  years  ago  when  they  lis- 
te  .ed  to  Herbert  Carter's  first  address  in  New 
\  ork. 

"Margaret  is  a  wonderful  woman,"  said  Leslie, 
thoughtfully.  "To  me  she  has  nothing  in  her  life, 
and  yet  she  is  so  calm,  and  reliable,  and  sure;  and 
she  seems  happy,  doesn't  she  impress  you  that  way, 
Vera?" 

"Oh,  yes,  quite;  though,  of  course,  she  would 
probably  be  just  the  same  if  she  were  not." 

"Still  one  can  always  tell.  I  think  she  must  miss 
the  country  and  her  beloved  rose  garden,  this 
summer." 

Vera  laughed. 

"She  has  'meetings'  and  her  adored  Herb  gar- 
den instead,"  she  said. 

Margaret  Crowley  arranged  some  notes  and 
spoke : 

"I  smile  when  I  think  of  the  shriek  of  protest 
this  feeble  article  will  raise,  when  I  boldly  announce 
that  it  is  a  plea  for  More  Work!    As  a  side  issue. 


/i.. 


i> ' 


'  ■  f 


1 1-. 
j. 


li 


H^jt 


210 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


it  deals  with  the  possible  solution  of  the  Servant 
Question. 

More  work,  mind  you,  does  not  apply  to  the  abor- 
tive creations,  born,  reared,  and  smothered  in  sweat- 
shops— it  pertains  to  those  aristocratic  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  who  consider  themselves  exempt  from 
work — Home  work — either  by  reason  of  blue  blood, 
riches,  or  simply  plain  ignorance. 

Whence  comes  that  barbaric  idea,  fostered  so  ten- 
derly through  centuries,  that  an  aristocrat's  hand 
may  not  be  stained  by  Manual  Labor?  I  ask  for 
information — I  don't  know,  unless  it  comes  from 
China,  where  even  to-day,  those  of  high  degree, 
cultivate  an  abnormal  growth  of  the  finger  nails; 
and  the  higher  the  degree,  the  longer  the  nails.  In 
a  recent  magazine  there  appeared  a  picture  of  a 
prince  whose  finger  nails  touched  the  floor,  when 
his  hand  rested  upon  a  table.  Needless  to  say,  he 
was  absolutely  helpless  for  fear  of  breaking  his 
emblem  of  princeliness,  and  it  is  a  thing  for  which 
we  may  well  be  thankful,  that  All- Wise  Providence 
in  His  noble  dispensation,  did  not  dispense  any 
more  of  these  cartilage  cultivators  than  China  can 
conveniently  handle. 

However,  to  resume;  most  manual  labor  is  done 
by  women — at  least,  there  is  very  little  they  have 
not  done — if  not  in  this  country,  elsewhere. 
Women  plow,  women  reap,  women  harvest;  they 
do,  in  short,  all  the  hardest  labor,  yet  man  in  his 
selfishness,  begrudges  them  a  seat  in  his  easy  berth, 
and  grumbles  about  a  reduction  in  his  wage  because 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


211 


of  woman's  encroachment  upon  his  sphere.  He 
won't  help  her  do  her  work,  and  does  not  like  hav- 
ing her  try  his.  Pray  what  is  his  sphere.?  Who 
shall  say,  "This  is  man's  work— This  is  woman's?" 

One  hundred  years  ago,  a  woman  lifted  up  her 
voice  and  pleaded  for  Women's  Rights.  Thousands 
read  her  words  to-day  which  seem  a  little  common 
place,  only  because  we  are  becoming  accustomed  to 
this  heinous  usurping  of  man's  rights,  and  deem  it 
no  wonder  that  women  teach  in  our  schools,  practice 
law  and  medicine,  aye,  even  stand  in  our  pulpits. 

But  this  is  not  manual  labor — true — which  brings 
us  back  to  the  starting  point.  Socialists  claim  that 
in  four  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four  all  the  neces- 
sary work  of  the  world  could  be  done,  provided 
every  one  worked.  The  rest  of  the  day  could  then 
be  given  over  to  pleasure  (which  should  be  merely 
a  different  form  of  work).  But  every  one  does 
not  work  four  hours,  or  even  one,  so  that  the  result 
is  plainly — some  people  work  all  the  time,  and 
some — never. 

The  survival  of  the  fittest?  Not  at  all.  There 
are  hard  working,  earnest  young  men  crowding 
the  offices  of  New  York  City,  who  are  eminently 
more  fitted  for  a  week-end  trip  up  the  Hudson, 
than  the  smug  financier  who  employs  them-  and 
the  same  applies  to  the  mistress  and  the  maid, 

A  caller  was  once  heard  to  remark,  "I  don't  see 
how  you  get  along  with  that  Eliza  of  yours,  she  is 
so  dreadfully  superior,  and  really,  she  uses  words, 
the  meaning  of  which  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea." 


212 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


;  ^^\i 


1  : 


The  hostess  found  it  difficult  to  refrain  from  an- 
swering that  for  a  conversation  worth  while,  Eliza 
was  a  far  more  preferable  vis-a-vis  than  her  vel- 
veted  and  ermined  caller. 

The  common  cry  is  for  less  work — the  examples 
are  too  numerous  to  mention.  On  the  road,  in  the 
mines,  in  offices,  in  the  home,  there  is  the  same 
horror  of  work. 

Dealing  particularly  with  woman's  side  of  the 
question — the  home  has  become  an  unlovely  burden 
because  it's  name  spells  drudgery.  Girls  and 
women  flock  to  offices  that  they  may  escape  from 
the  home  and  it's  work,  or,  possibly,  earn  enough 
to  hire  some  one  else  to  do  it.  Each  one  shirks 
her  share. 

And  the  Hired  One?  She  usually  occupies  the 
position  of  a  necessary  automaton  to  her  mistress. 
Far  more  work  is  expected  of  her  than  two  hands 
can  happily  do,  and  if  she  ventures  a  protest,  she 
is  asked  what  she  docs  expect  to  do,  to  earn  her 
money.  Taking  it  all  in  all,  the  relations  between 
mistress  and  maid  are  generally  hostile.  Each  one 
struggles  to  keep  the  other  in  the  prescribed  orbit 
known  as  her  "place."  One  expects  more  than  the 
other  can  do,  and  the  other  does  as  little  as  possible 
to  escape  dismissal.  There  come  times  when  the 
Hired  One  boldly  demands  a  day  off,  and  the 
mistress  tells  her  friends  how  ungrateful  and  in- 
considerate servants  are;  she  has  not  dared  to  re- 
fuse, for  fear  of  losing  her  link  between  these  and 
the  slave  days. 


n\' 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


213 


Women  usually  feel  that  they  have  all  they  can 
manage  on  their  shoulders — and  this  is  where  the 
men  come  in. 

How  many  men  help,  one  atom,  in  their  own 
homes  ?  How  many  husbands,  on  Sunday  morning, 
go  downstairs  and  get  a  bite  of  breakfast  (and  clear 
it  up)  for  the  wife  who  has  done  that  much  and 
so  much  more  for  him,  the  other  six  days? 
Further,  how  many  men  ever  pick  up  a  newspaper, 
or  put  the  ashes  from  cigarette,  cigar,  or  pipe  where 
they  belong?  These  are  the  foolish  little  trifles, 
but  they  make  more  work — ah,  needless  work  for 
the  wife,  mother,  or  sister,  who  has  the  care  of  ^he 
home  as  her  portion. 

Wait  on  yourself  in  little  things — the  big  ones 
will  become  easy.    Do  the  work  near  at  hand ! 

A  lady  who  decorated  the  top  notch  of  Society 
was  seen  downtown  at  a  remarkably  early  hour. 
On  being  twitted  about  it  she  replied,  "Oh,  I  have 
my  household  moving  in  the  proper  grooves,  at 
last.  /  go  downtown  and  buy  stocks,  while  Edward 
goes  to  market!" 

Well,  then,  if  men  helped  the  women,  and  mis- 
tresses helped  their  maids,  proportionately  the  work 
would  be  lessened  and  the  drudgery  would  disap- 
pear. 

Joyless  labor  would  be  transformed  into  joyful 
work,  and  the  prayer  would  be  for  greater  capac- 
ity, instead  of  immunity  and  inability. 

Rest  simply  means  change  of  work.  This  ap- 
plies to  the  women  of  the  land  who  have  a  glim- 


214 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


S-    I 


'' 


i'. 


j ! 


mer  of  their  usefulness,  their  heritage  of  power; 
not  to  the  unenviable  puppets  of  fashion,  who  have 
no  thought  save  of  "Society,"  and  who  have  estab- 
lishments— not  Homes,  to  live  in. 

A  certain  doctor  asserts  that  he  can  work  with 
ease  for  eighteen  hours.  This  is  a  little  strenuous, 
but  realize  what  lie  means.  He  probably  does  a 
dozen  different  things  during  the  eighteen  hours, 
some  of  which  are  usually  termed  "pleasure." 

The  main  point  is  Get  at  it!  Don't  dawdle.  In 
reading  a  novel,  dusting  the  den,  cooking  the  din- 
ner, washing  the  dishes — concentrate! 

Who  has  so  little  time  as  the  idler,  and  who 
makes  so  many  excuses?  Only  the  busy  person 
ever  has  time — all  of  which  is  due  to  concentra- 
tion and  a  love — cultivated  or  natural,  for  work. 

If,  Utopia  being  at  hand,  immunity  from  work 
meant  perfection  in  it,  everything  would  smoothly 
run.  Before  she  would  become  the  mistress  of  half 
a  dozen  maids,  the  woman  must  have  perfected  her- 
self in  every  branch  of  their  work.  There  would 
still  be  time  for  education  and  self -instruction  in 
the  Fine  Arts,  for  education  is  largely  a  matter 
of  desire.  The  maids  employed  would  realize  their 
limitation?  and  understand  how  to  reach  the  cov- 
eted goal;  while  the  men — another  article  must  be 
devoted  to  the  men,  who,  after  all  are  the  ones 
most  in  need  of  kindergartening,  and  on  whom  so 
much  of  happiness  depends. 

In  the  language  of  one  of  th'.  greatest  writers 
of  the  day,  "God  help  the  rich,  the  poor  can  Work." 


1 
v 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


215 


Vera  and  Leslie  looked  at  each  other  in  aston- 
ishment, during  the  applause  which  marked  the 
closing  of  the  paper. 

"She  is  getting  perfectly  skittish,"  exclaimed 
Vera  soberly.     "I  must  look  into  this." 

"Hush!  There  is  Mr.  Carter,"  warned  Leslie, 
"he  evidently  is  much  pleased,  just  look  at  the  beam 
on  his  countenance." 

"The  paper  to  which  you  have  just  listened,"  he 
began,  with  an  appreciative  glance  in  Margaret's 
direction,  "contained  among  its  other  sober  truths, 
the  greatest  one — the  greatest  factor  in  life  to-day, 
if  I  may  so  put  it.  I  refer  to  the  implied  cause  of 
so  much  hostility  between  all  phases  of  our  social 
system — the  amount  of  cupidity,  existing,  the  graft 
--the  breaking  up  of  the  home — Less  work.  It 
is  obvious  that  we  would  not  be  happier  working 
along  lines  which  are  odious  and  uncongenial,  but 
there  are  notable  examples  of  men,  who  work  for 
the  love  of  it,  such  as  John  Wanamaker,  who,  with 
all  his  millions,  accepted  the  position  of  postmaster 
at  a  salary  of  $8,000  a  year.  He  did  not  want  the 
money.  The  railroad  magnates  are  born,  not  made, 
and  under  the  new  regime,  they  would  work  for 
salaries,  not  huge  profits,  just  the  same — for  the 
love  of  that  work.  An  instance  of  distribution  of 
labor  occurs  to  me  now.  I  was  one  of  a  party  who 
went  off  camping  for  six  weeks.  We  did  not  go 
entirely  for  pleasure,  but  our  work  was  compara- 
tively easy  and  light.  There  was  no  organization 
of  the  camp  before  starting,  and  the  men  in  dis- 


2l6 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


H 


.. 


I ' 


■1 


I  ■ 


cussing  the  matter,  agreed  that  we  would  share  the 
work  equally,  that  is,  each  one,  in  turn,  would  do 
the  same  piece  of  work.  One  day  I  would  draw 
the  water,  and  Jones  would  cook,  while  Smith  took 
measurements  and  wrote,  Brown  would  cut  the 
wood,  and  Boyle  would  'clear  up'— an  inelegant 
term  applied  to  the  keeping  of  a  camp  in  sanitary 
condition.  We  tried  this  plan  with  indifferent  suc- 
cess for  two  weeks  or  so,  until  each  one  had  a  taste 
of  the  other  one's  iob.  Then  one  day  Smith  and 
Jones  came  to  me,  and  said : 

"  'Look  here,  Mr.  Carter,  you  seem  able  to  man- 
age this  ranch,  all  right,  and  it's  more  than  we 
can  do.  Suppose  you  let  me  draw  all  the  water, 
and  let  Smith,  here,  do  the  cooking;  I  might  say  that 
Boyle  hates  work  of  any  clerical  variety,  much  pre- 
ferring to  sit  in  the  woods  and  smoke,  so  he  would 
be  perfectly  willing  to  cut  all  the  wood,  and  keep 
the  fires  going." 

"There  is  the  system  in  a  nut  shell,  my  friends. 
The  men  voluntarily  chose  their  work,  and  did  it 
happily.  I  miglit  say  that  it  was  a  very  enjoyable 
six  weeks,  which  I  spent  hundreds  of  miles  from 
this  seething  caldron  of  misery  and  unhappiness." 

The  four  friends  left  the  hall  together.  Some- 
thing in  Margaret's  manner  made  Leslie  look  at 
her  curiously.  Then,  unconsciously,  she  glanced  at 
Herbert  Carter,  who  was  talking  to  Vera.  Mar- 
garet, seeing  the  look  grew  crimson,  and  laughed 
embarrassedly. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


217 


Leslie  squeezed  her  arm. 

"Really?"  she  asked,  with  a  beaming  smile. 

"Oh,  some  time,"  answered  the  other.  "We  are 
too  old  to  rush  headlong  into  matrimony." 

"Oh,  Margaret  dear,  I'm  so  excited!  Let's  tell 
Vera!" 

"No,  no,  not  now,  please.  We  are  not  even  sure 
of  anything,  but  this  one  common  bond — our 
work." 

"Well,  what  else  can  you  want?"  asked  Leslie 
lightly. 

"Love,"  said  Margaret,  with  so  much  feeling 
that  it  did  not  seem  to  have  come  from  her  at  all. 
**Love,"  she  repeated,  then  stopped,  and  grew  as 
white  as  she  had  been  pink  before. 

Leslie  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  saw  her  hus- 
band coming  toward  them. 


'.  t 


If- 


I- 


r- 


b 


n 


■A 


218 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"There  is  a  lady  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Tressidar,  she 
has  been  waiting  some  time." 

Leslie  pulled  oflf  her  gloves  slowly,  dropping  one 
as  she  walked.  It  was  an  old  trick  of  hers,  and 
one  which  each  new  man  learned  with  difficulty. 
He  usually  made  the  mistake  of  handing  the  glove 
at  once  to  his  mistress.  This  was  an  error.  She 
did  not  want  it — she  did  not  want  to  be  reminded 
that  it  had  been  dropped — just  why,  no  one  knew. 
Why,  any  habit?  She  loved  to  walk  through  the 
square  hall  with  its  polished  floors,  covered  here 
and  there  by  oriental  rugs,  of  soft,  almost  indefinite 
hues,  through  the  high  arch  leading  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, a  symphony  in  green  and  si'  er — she 
loved  to  sweep  through  here  uninterrupted  by  any 
butlers  or  maids,  or  even  Loring.  Leslie  walked 
well,  and  she  knew  it. 

This  afternoon,  after  dropping  her  glove  as  usual, 
she  passed  slowly  through  the  door,  and  into  her 
drawing-room.  The  blinds  were  drawn  and  by  the 
dim  light  Leslie  discerned  a  small  fair  woman  sit- 
ting in  an  attitude  of  nervous  tension  in  the  far 
corner  of  the  room. 

Coming  from  the  strong  glare  outside,  Mrs.  Tres- 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


219 


sidar  was  glad  of  the  intervening  space  between 
her  and  her  visitor,  so  she  trailed  slowly  toward 
the  centre  of  the  room. 

"You  wish  to  see  me  ?" 

"Mrs.  Tressidar?" 

Becoming  more  accustomed  to  the  dimness  Leslie 
made  out  the  features  of  the  girl  who  had  risen 
and  was  standing  before  her.  Younger  than  she 
had  at  first  supposed,  there  was  a  look  of  suflFer- 
ing  on  the  pale  face  seldom  seen  in  one  of 
her  age,  the  kind  of  suffering  which  comes  from 
wounds  inflicted  by  the  living  and  from  which  there 
is  no  escape;  time,  mercifully  eases  pain  and  long- 
ing for  those  departed  from  this  life.  She  was 
dressed  almost  shabbily,  but  wore  her  clothes  with 
the  air  of  an  aristocrat,  and  she  seemed,  despite 
her  nervousness,  perfectly  at  home  in  these  sur- 
roundings. Leslie  was  a  little  puzzled  by  her  man- 
ner, which  implied  either  an  antagonism  to  herself, 
a  disliking  for  the  errand  upon  which  she  was  bent, 
or  a  childish  embarrassment  and  shyness. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Tressidar,"  she  said  in  her  most  sym- 
pathetic, winning  manner;  "won't  you  sit  down?" 

The  two  women  seated  themselves ;  the  one  with 
easy,  languid  grace,  the  other  with  unbending  rigid- 
ity. There  was  silence,  and  the  tension  grew  un- 
comfortable. 

Suddenly  Leslie  bent  forward. 

"You  are  in  trouble,"  she  said  softly,  "what  can 
I  do  to  help?" 


I'^i 


220 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


With  difficulty  the  girl  spoke,  she  seemed  con- 
fused. 

"Vou  make  it  very  hard  for  me,"  her  voice  came 
through  trembling  lips  and  was  husky,  "everything 
is  hard  for  me— about  you,  I  mean,"  she  continued 
enigmatically.  "I  did  not  know  it  would  be  like 
this." 

All  at  once,  Leslie  caught  her  breath  in  what 
sounded  like  a  quick,  indrawn  sigh.  She  had  often 
noticed  a  queer  catching  of  her  breath  lately,  and  at 
times  it  annoyed  her  greatly.  She  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  "having  things." 

Her  unerring  intuitive  sense  warned  her  that  this 
visit  had  to  do  with  Algy,  and  her  eyes  contracted 
with  pain. 
^  "I  have  the  certainty,  now  that  I  see  you" — the 

girl's   voice   found   something   of   steadiness "of 

knowing  that  if  I  don't  begin  right,  you  will  not 
let  me  finish,  and  all  these  years  will  have  been  in 
vain.  I  am  rather  tired  and  not  quite  well,  and  my 
brain  will  not  work  as  it  should.  I  am  nervous, 
Mrs.  Tressidar,  because  I  am  afraid." 

The  voice  trailed  off  in  a  whisper,  and  once  more 
the  room  was  very  still. 

"You  feel  obliged  to  tell  me?"  Leslie  asked,  at 
last. 

"Oh,  yes !"  There  was  tlie  note  of  a  wounded 
bird,  in  the  cry.  "Listen"— leaving  her  seat,  and 
slipping  to  the  floor  beside  her,  the  girl  spoke  rap- 
idly, tensely,  "my  name  is  Sue-Leigh  Harmon— you 
don't  easily  forget  a  name  like  that,  do  you  ?  neither 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


221 


does  any  one  else.  My  parents  went  to  India,  when 
I  was  quite  a  little  girl,  and  I  lived  there  until—- 
until— lately."  She  drew  her  handkerchief  out  of 
her  sleeve  and  rubbed  it  hard  across  her  face.  "We 
are  not  exactly  of  ^he  aristocracy,  Mrs.  Tressidar, 
but  more  than  just  '-cspectable,'  and  I  was  well  edu- 
cated, and  brought    [)." 

Her  eyes  were  t  pitiful  c!iallenge,  and  Leslie 
nodded  silently,  almost  dreading  to  look  full  at 
her. 

"When  I  was  eighteen  I  went  into  the  hospital 
to  train  as  a- nurse,  and  after  a  year  there,  during 
which  I  got  on  far  beyond  my  exp'^ctations,  we  had 
a  bad  season,  and  the  wards  began  to  fill  appall- 
ingly fast  with  enteric  patients.  Although  I  should 
not  have  had  charge  of  a  patient  under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances, owing  to  the  demand  for  nurses,  and 
my  efficiency,  I  was  given  the  night  duty,  on  a  case. 
The  patient  was  your  husband." 

Again  that  irritating  catch  in  her  breath  made 
Leslie  move  her  head  from  side  to  side  and  raise 
her  chin  as  though  she  craved  more  air.  Softly 
the  girl  spoke. 

"You  are  not  surprised?" 

"No,  I  rather  expected  that  was  coming.  Go 
on,  please." 

"You  who  know  him  so  well,  can  imagine  him 
ill,  helpless,  suffering.  Every  nurse  in  the  hospital 
soon  got  to  know  him,  they  had  to  be  reprimanded 
for  neglecting  the  other  patients  in  order  '  3  perform 
some  slight  service  for  him.    It  was  a  pleasure  to 


f 


m 


»?( 


& 


222 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


1, 


■ "  ■  «i,; 


fi! 


*  Its 

ifi 


w 

1 

n 

h 

if 

1 

'I 


even  speak  to  him,  and  by  and  by  when  he  was 
out  of  danger  and  the  time  for  his  departure  drew 
near,  the  girls  united  in  the  one  great  ambition — 
that  of  becoming  Mrs.  Algy  Tressidar." 

For  an  instant,  her  eyes  clouded  and  she  spoke 
bitterly.  Leslie  was  conscious  of  wishing  to  take 
a  more  comfortable  chair,  it  seemed  tiresome  to  sit 
so  rigidly,  she  did  not  realize  that  every  muscle 
was  strained  and  taut,  and  that  her  nails  cut  into 

her  palm. 

"Of  course  I  loved  him,  too.  He  said  he  loved 
me,  that  he  owed  his  life  to  me,  and  that  it  was 
mine  to  do  with  as  I  pleased."  She  laughed  with 
a  great  dry  sob  in  her  throat.  "I  believed  him  be- 
cause I  was  innocent  of  the  ways  of  men,  and  when 
he  finally  left  the  hospital,  /  zvcni,  too,  do  you  un- 
derstand?" 

"Poor  httle  girl!" 

"We  lived  in  an  adorable  bungalow  way  off  in 
the  hills ;  he  had  got  leave  for  six  months,  and  in- 
stead of  going  home  to  England,  he  hid  with  me. 
Realize  what  I  did?  Perhaps,  I  have  forgotten,  I 
only  know  I  was  happy,  because  I  had  him." 

The  hunger,  the  passion,  the  anguish  made  Leslie 
faint  and  again  she  moved  her  head  and  tried  to 
breath  comfortably. 

"Then  he  went  away,  left  me  one  day,  and  did 
not  come  back.  I  got  a  letter  weeks  after,  saying 
that  he  was  not  worthy  of  me,  that  he  was  'drink- 
ing,' and  couldn't  stop,  advising  me  to  go  back 
to  the  hospital  and  take  up  my  old  work  of  mercy. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


223 


God,  oh,  my  God,  what  a  letter!    And  it  was  not 
many  months  after  that  his  child  was  born !" 

"Oh!"  Leslie  tried  to  draw  her  hand  from  the 
convulsive  clasp  of  the  girl  who  held  it.  She  could 
see  the  whole  thing  so  vividly,  it  almost  made  her 
feel  as  though  she  had  been  Sue-Leigh  Harmon, 
and  had  suffered  this  supreme  anguish. 

"And  then?"  she  whispered. 

"Then  I  left  the  child  in  India  and  tried  to  fol- 
low him.  Not  for  revenge,"  she  cried,  interpreting 
the  look  of  astonishment  on  Leslie's  white  face, 
"no,  no,  for  love  of  him,  blind,  u.  changing  love  of 
him.  Just  to  be  near  him,  to  hear  his  voice — God, 
Mrs.  Tressidar!"  her  voice  rose  wild  and  shrill,  "I 
suppose  you  wonder  why  I  didn't  kill  myself !"  In 
a  moment  she  grew  more  calm.  "I  followed  him 
from  place  to  place,  sometimes  being  in  the  same 
town  and  not  knowing  it  until  too  late.  Always 
there  were  women  and  whisky,  always  there  -  as  a 
woman.  Some  of  the  time  I  was  starving,  I 
begged  and  sang  in  the  streets  after  leaving  that 
hideous  country,  I  lived  by  other  ways — anything 
would  do  to  give  me  money  that  I  might  reach 
him.  In  Paris  I  almost  died,  there  seemed  no  clue. 
By  writing  to  England  I  found  that  he  was  not  at 
home,  as  far  as  my  information  went,  he  had  been 
disinherited  and  had  gone  to  America.  Very  well, 
I  said,  I  will  gc  to  America,  also.     But  where?" 

She  stopped  speaking,  and  seemed  to  look  back 
upon  a  horror-laden  past. 

"Then  one  day  a  queer  thing  happened.    An  artist 


ii  { 


ll 


11 


'I  ■ 


<   . 


ii) 


r 

1 1. 

N 

■  i 


i 

il 


«  11      'i 


224  THE  WINNING  GAME 

picked  me  out  of  the  street ;  he  said  ^  was  just  the 
model  for  his  picture  called  "Yea  iig."  Later, 
when  it  was  finished  some  people  came  to  the  studio 
to  see  it,  and  among  them  was  an  English  woman 
whom  he  called  Miss  Fairborough.  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  her?" 

Leslie  shook  her  head. 

"I  know  next  to  nothing  of  my  husband's  past," 

she  said  slowly. 

"No  matter,  she  was  part  of  it,  I  know.  Mr. 
Claymore,  the  artist,  insisted  on  bringing  me  out 
that  they  might  see  me,  and  in  moving  past  an  easel 
to  inspect  me  better  (that  was  the  air  of  the  whole 
party)  Miss  Fairborough  caught  her  chain,  and  it 
snapped.  In  stooping  to  pick  it  up,  the  locket  which 
hung  on  the  end  flew  open,  and  whose  face  looked 
out  into  mine — whose  ?  Algy  Tressidar's !  I  fainted, 
and  when  I  came  to  myself,  they  had  all  gone. 
Then  I  told  Mr.  Claymore  the  whole  story,  and 
while  he  advised— begged  me,  to  give  up  my  search, 
he  promised  to  help  me  when  I  showed  how  bent  I 
was  upon  continuing  it.  Just  how  he  found  out 
so  much  I  will  never  know,  but  I  came  over  here 
at  his  expense — and  nothing  more,"  she  added  tri- 
umphantly, "and— I  find  you." 

The  whole  scene  had  been  dramatic,  but  Leslie 
was  too  disturbed  to  notice  it.  She  felt  alternately 
nervously  alive  and  dumbly  stupid — it  must  be  a 
dream,  one  always  felt  dazed  in  a  dream. 

"You  wonder  what  I  want?  I  thought  I  wanted 
to  ask  you  to  give  him  back  to  me.     I  was  not  sure 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


225 


when  I  left  Havre  that  he  was  really  married  (Miss 
Fairborough  did  not  think  he  would  ever  marry), 
and  then  I  wanted  to  beg,  shamelessly  beg!  Ah, 
Mrs.  Tressidar,  perhaps  I  am  not  sane— I  don't 
doubt  it,  to  have  fallen  so  low.  But  at  least  I 
should  like  to  be  rid  of  men,  and  their  wolfish  de- 
sires, and  I  am  starving  here." 

"Oh,  my  poor  child,"  Leslie  s  voice  throbbed,  and 
she  made  as  though  to  rise.     "My  poor,  poor  girl !" 
"Wait ;  that  is  not  all.     I  want  to  see  him,  I  want 
to  hear  him  speak,  not  to  me,  of  course— ah,  no!  I 
am  not  as  mad  as  that— but  to  you,  or  perhaps,''^ 
she  hesitated,  "to  your  child.     Have  you  a  child?" 
Choking,  the  other  bowed  her  head,  and,  push- 
ing the  girl  aside,  rang  the  bell.     When  it's  sum- 
mons was  answered  she  gave  an  order  in  a  low 
voice  and  stood  beside  the  door,  waiting.     In  a 
few  moments  after  writing  something  on  a  slip  of 
paper,  Leslie  recrossed  the  drawing-room  and  laid 
her  hand  upon  the  bowed  head,  speaking  softly : 

"I  want  you  to  take  this  check  to  the  address  I 
have  written  here.  Ur.  Crowley  will  give  you  all 
the  money  now,  or  will  arrange  to  send  it  to  you, 
as  you  wish.  He  will  ask  no  questions.  You  will 
not  have  to  be  identified.  I  am  only  bitterly  sorry 
there  is  no  more  I  can  do.  Money  is  but  a  poor 
consolation  for  a  bleeding  heart." 

"Your  very  goodness  makes  me  writhe,"  said 
Sue-Leigh  Harmon,  with  streaming  eyes.  "I  have 
not  spoken  to  a  woman  for  so  long.  Oh,"  she 
gasped,    in    astonishment.    "I    can't  let  you  give 


if. 


i 


m 


'  3 


226 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


I 


it" 


'1 
I. 


:'( 


i 


I 


me  this.     Why,  it  is  a  small  fortune  1    Take  it 
back!" 

Leslie  put  her  hands  behind  her,  and  shook  her 
head.  "I  don't  need  it,"  she  said.  "Some  one  left 
me  a  large  sum  of  money  at  one  time,  strangely 
prophesying  that  there  would  come  a  time  in  my 
life  when  I  would  need  a  sum  of  money  for  a 
specific  purpose.  There  will  never  come  an  hour 
when  I  want  it  more  than  now.  As  I  say,  it  is  a 
poor  substitute  for  the  love  you  crave." 

And  suddenly  she  succumbed  to  an  impulse  of 
divine  pity,  and,  taking  the  bruised  creature  in  her 
arms,  she  kissed  her. 

There  was  a  step  in  the  hall,  and  the  two  drew 
apart  quickly.  "Stay  where  you  are,"  whispered 
Leslie,  "he  will  not  see  you.  God  bless  you,  and 
good-by !" 

"Is  that  you,  Algy  ?"  she  asked,  in  almost  a  nat- 
ural voice,  walking  swiftly  into  the  hall. 

"The  very  same.  Little  Lady,"  Tressidar  an- 
swered lightly.  "Why,  are  you  not  going  to  kiss 
me?" 

"No,  it  is  too  warm,"  was  the  indolent  answer. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  more  indifferently  than  indo- 
lently, "only  /  am  going  to  kiss  you."  He  strode 
forward  and  took  his  wife  in  his  arms.  "Kiss  me, 
sweetheart,"  he  whispered,  bending  over  her. 

"Algy,"  cried  Leslie,  "put  me  down,  quickly! 
I'm  fainting!" 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


227 


m 


CHAPTER  X. 

"Will  you  see  Count  de  Vinville,  Madame?" 
Leslie  lay  inert  and  weak  upon  a  rose-covered 
couch,  in  her  dressing  room.     She  was  wondering 
whether  or  not  to  send  for  Ceciley  to  come  back 
from  Edgeville.     Since  the  afternoon  of  the  girl's 
visit  she  had  found  it  hard  to  keep  up,  and  the 
haunting  fear  that  she  would  bore  Algy  and  send 
him  off  to  break  his  word  and  her  heart,  never 
left  her.     She  contrived  pitifully  tender  little  de- 
vices by  which  she  could  keep  him  at  home  in  the 
evenings.     Sometimes  she  would  put  a  note  on  his 
dressing  table,  which  he  would  see  while  changing 
for  dinner,  asking  him  to  call  upon  Mile.  Fifi  at  nine 
o'clock.    At  a  few  moments  before  that  time  she 
would  run  upstairs  and  dress  herself  in  some  dainty 
costume,  indicative  of  her  part,  and  they  would 
play  like  children  at  a  masquerade.     Another  time 
she  would  be  a  Japar:;se,  as  far  as  costume  would 
permit,  and  would  insist  upon  Algy's  sitting  on  the 
floor  and  drinking  tea  from  diminutive  cups.    Again 
there  would  be  the  alluring  inscription : 

"The  Pixies  have  got  me,"  and  then  Algy  knew 
that  it  was  to  be  an  evening  of  lovable  pranks  and 
jokes  such  as  no  one  but  Leslie  could  devise.    He 


m 


ir 


lltl 


228 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


1  i. 


I' 


!i 


did  not  realize  that  all  day  while  he  was  out  or 
asleep  she  was  thinking  out  these  little  plots,  and 
that  she  kept  up  while  with  him  only;  that  the 
instant  she  was  alone  she  became  limp  and  list- 
less. 

"Will  you  see  Count  de  Vinville?" 

Since  the  episode  with  Celeste  Mignon,  Leslie 
had  loathed  tlie  Count  inexpressibly,  as  only  a 
highly  honorable  nature  could  loathe  such  a  decep- 
tive one.  She  did  not  see  the  Count's  point  of 
view.  She  did  not  know  that  he  thought  her  un- 
happy with  Tressidar,  and  lacking  only  sufficient 
excuse  to  leave  him;  she  did  not  give  him  credit 
for  such  a  lasting  and  absorbing  passion  for  her- 
self. Her  position  was  a  little  difficult  in  regard 
to  the  Frenchman,  not  wishing  to  antagonize  him 
further  (this  last  act  looked  like  a  cowardly  re- 
venge for  her  refusal  of  him),  she  did  not  want 
to  overlook  his  part,  nor  encourage  his  attentions, 
not  only  upon  her  account,  but  upon  Algy's.  As  a 
mother  watches  the  associates  of  her  children,  so 
Leslie  looked  at  the  Count  and  said,  "contact  with 
him  is  not  good  for  Algy." 

He  rarely  alluded  to  his  attachment  for  her,  but 
a  wise  woman  can  read  more  from  a  man's  looks 
in  a  crowded  ballroom  than  a  foolish  one  can  in  a 
moonlit  garden.  It  was  the  intensity  of  the  Count's 
love  that  Leslie  discredited.  She  probably  thought 
him  flirtatious  with  all  women. 

"I  wonder  whether  New  York  is  agreeing  with 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


229 


you?"  he  said,  as  he  took  her  hand.  "You  look  a 
little  white." 

"That  is  not  like  the  usual  stream  of  compli- 
ments which  pours  from  your  lips,"  she  answered 
lightly;  "the  heat  always  saps  me." 

"Then  why  not  get  out  of  it?" 

"A  woman's  reason— just  because." 

"Oh,  if  that  is  the  case,  of  course  I  have  noth- 
ing more  to  say." 

"You  sound  like  George  Burnley,    said  Leslie, 

laughing. 

"Thank  you,  Madame,  that  is  indeed  a  compli- 
ment.    May  I  ask  where  is  your  good  husband?" 

"Downtown,  I  believe."  The  answer  was  not  as 
indifferently  spoken  as  she  could  have  wished.  Al- 
though fully  persuaded  that  this  time  she  believed 
in  Algy,  the  door  never  opened,  nor  did  the  tele- 
phone ring  that  her  heart  failed  to  leap,  then  to 
apparently  stop,  leaving  her  weak  and  trembling. 
If  some  one  said  "Mrs.  Tressidar"  suddenly,  she 
gave  a  start,  all  of  which,  being  a  comparatively 
new  development,  annoyed  her  greatly.  Just  now 
she  imagined  the  Count's  voice  held  something  more 
than  mere  curiosity  and  the  old  fear  grasped  her. 

"1  have  not  seen  him  lately,"  the  man  said,  "he 
seems  to  be  interested  in  a  new  deal." 

"Yes?" 

A  "new  deal"  might  be  anything— another 
woman,  a  horse,  stocks,  or  more  whisky.  It  was 
characteristic  of  Leslie  that  when  she  trusted  a  per- 
son, suspicion  of  them  never  entered  her  head. 


230 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


t 


cr  -! 


! 


I » 


I 


Another  woman  might  have  tortured  herself,  won- 
dering whether  this  poor,  starving,  heart-sore  girl 
from  India  would  not  try  to  see  the  man  she  loved, 
and  lure  him  back  again,  having  given  no  promises 
nor  definite  word  to  the  contrary.  But  Leslie  be- 
lieved in  Sue-Leigh  Harmon,  and  thought  of  her 
only  in  womanly  p'ty.  If  Algy  had  a  new  deal 
and  that  deal  was  a  woman,  it  was  assuredly  not 
this  one. 

"But  let  us  speak  of  lighter  topics,"  continued  the 
Count  airily,  "siiall  we  drive  somewhere  to  tea?" 

Leslie  was  just  about  to  refuse,  when  she  was 
summoned  to  the  telephone.  At  once  she  knew  Algy 
waited  to  speak  with  her,  and  she  trembled. 

"Is  that  you,  Littly  Lady?" 

"Yes,  Algy." 

"Well,  I  shall  not  be  home  to-night  for  dinner, 
nor  until  late,  perhaps.  I  have  met  some  old  friends 
and  we  are  going  to  'do'  New  York,  Will  you  ask 
some  one  over  and  not  be  lonely,  dear?" 

"Algy!" 

The  man  must  indeed  be  selfish  who  could  with- 
stand the  disappointment,  the  appeal  in  Leslie's 
voice.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  some  twinge  of  con- 
science passed  fleetingly  over  Tressidar,  and  he 
spoke  hastily: 

"No,  no,  dear,  not  what  you  think,  I  swear !  We 
are  going  to  Chinatown  and  through  the  Tender- 
loin, and  all  that.  You  can't  very  well  come,  but 
to-morrow  I  am  going  to  bring  these  two  chaps 
up  for  dinner.     Is  that  all  right?" 


i    :: 


I  :\ 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


231 


Leslie  never  quarrelled,  she  never  persisted  in 
having  her  way,  she  never  nagged.  She  took  it  for 
granted  that  for  a  man  of  Algy's  temperament  and 
habits  some  life  outside  i.is  home  was  necessary, 
and  she  had  never  openly  discouraged  his  jaunts. 
But  just  at  this  time  every  hour  he  spent  away  from 
her  was  an  hour  lost,  and  there  were  moments  when 
she  could  hardly  keep  from  telling  him  of  Dr. 
Graham's  visit. 

"Are  you  there?"  came  the  low,  pleasant,  un- 
ruffled voice  again. 

"Yes,  dear.  I  am  awfully  disappointed,  because 
I  wanted  you  particularly  to-night,"  she  hesitated, 
but  there  was  silence,  "good-by !" 

"Good-by,  darling.  Listen,  I  am  going  to  send 
you  a  kiss.  ...  Oh,  what  a  foolish  old  mar- 
ried man,  I  am!" 

The  Count  was  brilliant  all  evening,  and  except 
for  thinking  of  Algy  and  wondering  what  he  was 
doing  Leslie  almost  enjoyed  herself.  Instead  of 
having  tea,  they  had  dinner  together,  then  drove 
slowly  through  the  park  for  an  hour  or  two.  The 
Count  was  supremely  happy — he  had  not  been  al- 
lowed such  dangerous  intimacy  for  many  months. 

"You  will  repeat  this  joy  to  me  soon,  will  you 
not,  mon  amief"  he  said  softly,  as  the  door  opened 
to  admit  Leslie  to  her  home. 

"Oh,  but  yes,"  she  answered,  scarcely  thinking 
what  she  said. 

"To-morrow,  perhaps?"  insinuated  the  Count 
eagerly. 


■ih 


232 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


»  I     il 


1 1 


111 


"I  can't  promise,"  answered  Leslie  vaguely,  "but 
perhaps.     Good  night." 

"You  look  ill.  Mrs.  Tressidar,"  said  the  maid, 
who  came  in  with  a  tray  the  following  niornit^. 
"Have  you  had  a  bad  night?" 

"No,  no,  thank  you,  Ellen,"  Leslie  answered,  smil- 
ing.    "Did  Mr.  Tressidar  come  home  last  night?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  madame." 

"Has  there  been  any  message  for  me,  Ellen?" 

"I  don't  know  of  any,  Mrs.  Tressidar." 

"Very  well,  you  may  go,  and  take  the  tray;  I 
don't  feel  hungry." 

It  would  be  hard  to  wait  until  dinner  time  to 
see  Algy.  And  then  he  would  bring  home  two 
men.  What  a  bother!  They  would  probably 
smoke  and  talk  until  all  hours,  and  perhaps  take 
Algy  out  with  them,  after  all.  Oh,  well,  it  couldn't 
be  helped,  only  she  hoped  to  feel  better  than  at 
present. 

Margaret  Crowley  dropped  in  to  lunch,  and  was 
shocked  at  the  sight  of  her  friend. 

"You  look  positively  ill,  Leslie,"  she  said,  in  her 
blunt  way.  "have  you  seen  a  physician  ?" 

Leslie  bit  her  lips  and  laughed. 

"To  satisfy  you,  Margaret,  I  will  say  that  I 
have  had  a  physician,  who  told  me  that  I  had  nerves, 
all  in  capital  letters.  Fancy  me  a  prey  to  nerves. 
Can  you  imagine  that?" 

"Easily.  You  were  always  highly  nervous,  only 
I   don't   know   of    anything   in   particular   which* 


■i 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


233 
Ceci- 


brought  that  fact  patently  beiore  your  eyes, 
ley  always  said  you  were  nervous." 

"Dear  old  pippin!" 

"However,  that  does  not  make  your  eyes  so  dark, 
they  almost  look  black,  instead  of  blue  or  gray. 
Oh,  Leslie,  dear,  I  wonder  if  you  can  ever  re- 
alize how  I  have  loved  your  beauty  all  these  years." 

"Why,  Margaret  Crowley,  you  old  goose!"  cried 
Leslie  tenderly.  "I  am  not  beautiful,  and  no  one 
realizes  it  better  than  I.  The  sad  part  about  it  all 
is,  that  I  am  the  dreadfully  disappointing  person 
who  'goes  off,'  as  our  English  sisters  say.  I  have 
to  be  young  to  look  nice;  in  middle  or  old  age,  I 
would  have  looked  hideous."  She  used  the  "would 
have"  quite  unconsciously,  and  Mari^aret  did  not 
notice.  "Now,  Vera  Stearns  will  grow  old  grace- 
fully and  prettily,  so  will  you,  dear.  You  will  be 
regal  and  duchess-y.  I  have  now  to  resort  to  all 
sorts  of  petty  devices  to  even  fool  people  into  think- 
ing I  am  good-looking.  Curl  papers,  massage,  lots 
of  sleep,  regular  hours  for  food,  et  cetera,  have  pre- 
served me,  if  you  like,  but  I  am  not  beautiful,  my 
dear." 

"We  think  so,  at  any  rate."  The  pronoun 
slipped  out  inadvertently,  but  they  both  noticed,  and 
ignored  it.  "Some  people  can't  be  beautiful,  no 
matter  how  hard  they  try.  Will  you  not  come  to 
our  house  and  have  dinner  to-night?"  asked  Mar- 
garet.   "It  has  been  so  long  since  you  came?" 

"There  is  nothing  I  should  like  better,"  ex- 
claimed Leslie  sincerely,    "but    to-night    Algy    is 


I ; 


234 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


1     i''i 


bringing  home  two  old  country  friends  of  his,  so, 
of  course,  I  must  stay  home." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  invite  Mar- 
garet to  dine  with  them,  then  she  thought  better 
of  it— it  would  never  do  to  let  Margaret  know  of 
Algy's  "attack,"  granting  he  had  one.  Leslie 
Tressidar  tried  to  be  sure  that  her  husband  would 
come,  but  corroding  fear  ate  into  her  peace  of  mind, 
and  she  was  silent. 

Soon  the  visitor  left. 

Calling  the  maid,  Leslie  began  to  dress,  although 
there  was  more  than  an  hour  before  dinner.  Even 
when  finished  there  was  still  an  eternity  of  heavy 
minutes  ahead,  and  she  walked  restlessly  up  and 
down  in  her  room.  Suddenly  she  stopped  before 
the  cheval  mirror  and  looked  intently  at  the  image 
reflected  there. 

She  saw  a  slender  woman,  clad  in  a  white,  cling- 
ing crepe  gown,  open  at  the  neck,  displaying  a 
rather  thin,  but  beautifully  white  and  shapely, 
throat;  and  sloping  shoulders  from  which  hung 
long  Japanese-looking  sleeves,  lined  with  cloth  of 
silver.  Fine  silver  wire  traced  a  fantastic  design 
on  the  gown,  and  a  band  of  cloth  of  silver  made 
a  wide  hem  effect.  Long  filagree  earrings  of  the 
same  metal  hung  against  the  curve  of  her  neck, 
and  swung  gracefully  with  every  move  of  the  head. 
Leslie's  wavy  blond  hair  crowned  a  broad  and  seri- 
ous brow,  and  it,  in  turn,  was  surmounted  by  a  pe- 
culiar antique  silver  tiara. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


233 


"The  frills  are  all  right,"  said  Leslie  whimsic- 
ally, "but  oh,  the  face !" 

She  saw  a  pair  of  unnaturally  large  eyes,  in- 
describable in  color,  shaded  by  long  dark  lashes, 
and  further  beautified  by  straight  brows.  Beneath 
them  were  heavy  shadows  merging  their  bluish  tints 
into  a  delicate  flush  on  either  cheek.  The  nose  was 
a  little  sharp,  and  had  the  appearance  of  being 
pinched;  the  mouth  quivering  even  now,  as  she 
looked,  was  the  most  tender,  appealing  and  at  the 
same  time  strongest  mouth,  one  could  have  and  yet 
be  human.  Still,  the  drooping  lines  about  the  cor- 
ners gave  it  the  look  of  sadness,  of  suffering,  which 
God  in  his  goodness  had  never  intended  it  should 
wear.  The  lips  were  colorless,  and  to  Leslie's  keen 
eyes  there  appeared  a  blueness  across  them  which 
fascinated  her. 

She  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  seven-thirty. 
Simultaneously  with  the  striking  of  it,  a  voice 
called  softly: 

"Mrs.  Tressidar?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  woman,  turning. 

"Shall  we  wait  for  Mr.  Tressidar?" 

"Wait  half  an  hour." 

Leslie  dined  alone,  and  also  on  the  following 
night.    Then  she  telephoned  Don  Crowley. 

"My  pride  is  broken,  old  friend,"  she  told  him. 
"Algy  is  gone.     Do  you  know  where?" 

"Yes,  I  know,  dear  Leslie,  and  I  have  been  wait- 
ing for  some  word  from  you  to  offer  my  help.  Oh, 
darling,  hear  me,"  he  cried,  unable  to  bear  the  re- 


236 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


straint  longer,  "don't  struggle  any  more !  Can't  you 
see  how  futile  it  is?  With  all  the  good  intentions 
in  the  world,  and  all  the  love  for  you,  of  which  he 
is  capable,  still  there  is  nothing  for  you!  Leslie, 
I  can't  bear  it,  God  knows  I  have  tried,  but  it's  no 
use !"  He  took  her  in  his  strong  arms  and  crushed 
her  wildly  to  him,  burying  his  lips  in  her  hair. 

"Don,  Don,"  cried  the  girl,  struggling,  "think 
what  you  say — what  you  do !"  She  pushed  herself 
from  him,  and  sank  trembling  in  a  chair.  "You 
will  make  me  regret  sending  for  you,  you  will  kill 


any  one 


else," 
is 


she 
my 


our   friendship.     I   can't   love 

continued   more   gently.     "Algy   Tressidar 

whole  life.     Can't  you  understand?" 

"I  can't,  that's  the  plain  truth,  I  can't!  But  never 
mind,  if  you  choose  to  use  me  in  this  way,  I  take 
what  crumbs  fall  from  your  hand  humbly,  and  ask 
your  pardon  for  forgetting  myself  just  now." 

"Oh,  Don,  I  know  how  selfish  I  am,  and  I'm 
sorry,"  cried  Leslie  miserably,  "I  wish  you  wouldn't 
think  of  me  in  that  way.     Can't  you  stop?" 

The  man  vehemently  shook  his  head. 

"Then  think  of  my  case — I  can't  stop,  either." 

"Ah,  but  you  are  worthy  of  it "  he  began, 

but  stopped  at  the  sight  of  Leslie's  deathly  white- 
ness. 

An  hour  or  two  later  she  answered  the  telephone. 
It  was  Don,  who  had  found  Algy,  and,  according 
to  Leslie's  earnest  request,  was  going  to  bring  him, 
willy-nilly,  home  the  following  night  about  mid- 
night.    "Are  you  sure  you  can  bring  him,  Don?" 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


237 


she  asked  falteringly.  "A  great  deal  depends  upon 
it." 

"Your  husband  will  be  in  the  house  to-morrow 
at  midnight,"  answered  Crowley  decisively. 

Leslie  hung  up  the  receiver  and  crossed  the  room 
to  a  cupboard,  bringing  from  it  a  vivid  crimson 
gown.  This  she  laid  upon  the  back  of  a  chair, 
then  found  shoes,  stockings,  and  gloves  to  match; 
last,  she  took  the  cover  off  a  superb  cloak  of  white 
satin  trimmed  elaborately  w^ith  jet  and  gold. 

With  a  little  indrawn  sigh,  she  seated  herself 
before  her  dressing  table  and  opened  some  pack- 
ages lying  on  it.  They  were  boxes  of  actresses' 
cosmetics. 

"The  gambler  prepares  to  play  his  trump  card," 
she  said  aloud,  in  a  voice  husky  with  tears,  and  she 
dipped  her  white  finger  into  a  pot  of  rouge. 


2Z^ 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


I*     »'; 


%■■ 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Half-past  eleven  struck  and  Leslie,  sitting  down- 
stairs in  the  library,  which  was  almost  opposite  the 
front  door,  shivered.  She  made  two  attempts  to 
rise  before  succeeding,  then  drew  her  cloak  about 
her  shoulders  and  crept,  3haking,  to  the  front  door. 
Here  she  paused  in  an  attitude  of  listening. 

Presently  there  was  the  sound  of  voices,  and  a 
key  was  fitted  in  the  lock.  As  swiftly  as  her  shak- 
ing limbs  would  allow,  she  ran  from  the  front  door 
into  the  butler's  pantry,  and  from  there  into  a  little 
side  passage,  opening  on  the  street.  Unlocking  the 
door,  she  let  herself  out,  and  sped  through  the  al- 
leyway, gaining  the  front  entrance,  just  as  a  man 
whom  she  recognized  as  Don  Crowley  walked  down 
the  steps  into  the  darkness. 

She  waited  an  instant,  then  went  boldly  up  the 
steps  and  rattled  the  handle  of  the  door. 

As  Algy  opened  it  and  peered  unsteadily  out,  she 
was  leaning  against  the  frame,  waving  a  farewell 
to  some  one  whose  footsteps  echoed  back  to  them. 

Tressidar  moved  aside  to  let  her  pass,  and  opened 
his  lips  for  a  word  of  greeting  and  apology,  when 
something  about  his  wife  caused  him  to  remain  si- 
lent, in  quivering  horror.     The  man  was  quite  un- 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


239 


strung,  as  he  always  was,  when  he  tried  to  pull  him- 
self together,  he  was  burning,  suffering  for  an- 
other drink,  and  had  been  in  the  act  of  going  to  his 
cellaret  when  Leslie  rattled  the  door. 

She  swept  haltingly  past  him,  and  leaned  against 
the  library  door.  The  darkness  made  a  weird  back- 
ground, the  black  oak  frame  of  the  jamb  height- 
ened the  startling  whiteness  of  her  cloak,  and 
brought  out  the  burnished  tints  of  her  hair.  Alto- 
gether, the  setting  as  aJluringly  beautiful.  But 
the  subject ! 

They  stood  facing  each  other,  speechless  for  a 
moment,  then  Leslie  chuckled,  and  her  eyes  wa- 
vered unsteadily  from  her  husband's  face.  They 
gleamed  like  stars,  and  seemed  as  large  as  silver 
dollars.  Cheeks  and  lips  were  almost  as  deep  a 
scarlet  as  the  folds  of  the  gown  which  peeped  out 
from  their  dazzling  covering. 

Leslie  chuckled,  looked  around  the  familiar  hall- 
way, and  spoke  in  an  unusually  loud  and  strident 
voice : 

"You  got  home  before  we  did,  after  all,  didn't 
you?" 

She  swayed  a  little,  shifted  her  position  on  the 
other  foot,  and  leaned  more  heavily  against  the 
door.     Then  she  giggled  again. 

"You  are  a  big  joke,  Algy,"  the  words  came 
slowly,  and  precisely  as  though  she  were  afraid  of 
confusing  them,  "a  g^eat  big  joke." 

Tressidar  could  not  speak  for  watching  her.    He 


240 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


ij 


si       * 


it 

.11 


discredited  his  own  sobriety  as  he  looked,  surely 
there  was  some  mistake. 

"Where  have  you  been,"  he  demanded  suddenly, 
"and  with  whom?" 

LesHe  started,  and,  in  passing  her  hand  across 
her  brow,  the  white  mantle  shpped  from  her  shoul- 
ders to  the  floor.  Tressidar  caught  his  breath; 
never  had  he  seen  anything  so  maddeningly  beauti- 
ful as  his  wife,  as  she  stood  mockingly  before 
him.  Gowned  in  flaming  red,  she  looked  like  a 
vivid  bird  of  the  tropics. 

Her  neck  and  bosom  were  dazzling  in  contrast, 
and  the  brilliants  in  her  hair  and  around  her  throat 
seemed  indeed  a  part  of  her.     But,  oh,  the  other ! 

"I  know  what's  you  think,  my  hus-band,"  she 
said,  frowning  and  speaking  more  rapidly  and  care- 
lessly. Then,  with  a  secretive  nod,  she  repeated: 
*'I  know." 

"Where  were  you,  and  with  whom?" 

"Supper — Sh-Sh-Sherry's — with  th'  Count,"  was 
the  defiant  answer. 

"OK  nty  God!" 

A  foolish  giggle  broke  the  silence  which  followed 
these  words. 

"You're  a  joke,  Algy!  But  you're  all  right,  Kid, 
an'  I  like  you." 

"Stop,"  Tressidar  took  a  step  forward  and 
caught  his  wife  by  the  wrist,  roughly.  "You  arc 
a  woman " 

She  interrupted  with  a  delighted  laugh. 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


241 


"Aha,  we  have  discovered  one  clue — she  ish  a 
woman !    Good !    What  nex-ht  ?" 

"You  are  the  one  woman  in  all  my  experience  in 
whom  I  placed  implicit  trust.  That  you  were  not 
a  gilded  saint  I  well  knew,  but  you  were  a  zvoman. 
Bah,  you  are  too  drunk  to  even  understand  me!'* 
He  groaned  miserably.  "Leslie,  my  wife,  what 
have  you  done?" 

He  tried  to  speak  gently,  to  compel  her  to  look 
him  squarely  in  the  face,  but  without  success.  Her 
wavering  glance  rested  in  turn  upon  each  object 
about  them,  and  all  the  while  her  red  lips  parted  in 
a  fatuous  smile. 

"Leslie!"    The  cry  was  quick  and  sharp. 

She  blinked  her  eyes  and  straightened  up  for  a 
moment,  lifting  her  chin  and  showing  a  beautiful 
line  from  the  tip  of  it  down  her  throat  and  neck. 

"Wish  t'  be  called  Mrs.  Tressidar,"  she  said, 
with  increasing  thickness.  "I  don't  know  you  well 
enough  for  such-ch  familiarity."  Then  she  laughed, 
laughed,  laughed! 

"Leslie!"  There  was  suffering  in  the  cry;  it 
came  from  Tressidar's  soul.  "For  God's  sake  stop, 
and  listen  to  me.  This  is  a  deserved  punishment,  I 
suppose,  though  much  too  great.  If  you  have  ever 
suffered  as  I  am  writhing  now,  may  God  indeed 
forgive  me,  I  did  not  know  what  I  did.  Listen!" 
he  cried,  again  putting  two  feverish  hands  upon  her 
gleaming  shoulders,  "/  szvear  by  the  most  sacred 
thing  in  life — my  love  for  you,  I  swear  by  the  God 
who  made  me,  and  the  mother  who  bore  me,  I  swear 


If  f» 


242 


THE  WINNING  GAME 


by  the  child  who  carries  my  name  and  yours — never 
to  touch  another  drop  in  all  my  life!  But  neither 
shall  you!" 

A  sudden  change  came  over  Leslie's  face  as  he 
looked;  from  it  radiated  a  divine  light  which  puz- 
zled and  dazzled  him.  She  stood  magnificently 
straight  and  slender,  and  uttered  a  sobbing  cry : 

"Algy!" 

Then  she  fell  a  limp  and  crumpled  mass  of  crim- 
son chiffon  in  his  arms.  For  an  instant  he  strained 
her  to  .lim,  then,  looking  intently  into  the  upturned 
face,  he  saw  something  which  made  him  reel  with 
sudden  fear. 

"Leslie,  Little  Lady  Mine,"  he  called.  Even 
rouge  failed  to  hide  the  deathly  pallor  of  her  face, 
powder  was  impotent  to  cover  the  blueness  about 
her  lips. 

"Little  Lady,  speak  to  me!" 

"Put  me  down,  Algy,  quick!  Oh,  my  darling, 
my  darling !" 

Algernon  Tressidar  laid  his  lifeless  burden  on 
the  huge  white  rug  which  lay  at  her  feet.  Then 
he  knelt  brokenly  beside  her — she  had  played  the 
game  to  win. 


THE  END. 


I 


OUR    NEWEST    ISSUES 

By  James  A.  Ritchey,  Ph.D. 
Psychology  of  the  WUl $1.50 

By  Charles  Hallock,  M.  A. 
Peerless  Alaska I.M 

By  Dwight  Edwards  Marvin. 

Prof.  Slagg  of  London x.50 

The  Christman x.50 

By  Caroline  Mays  Brevard. 
Literature  of  the  South x.50 

By  Susan  Archer  Weiss. 
Home  Life  of  Foe  (3d  ed.) x.50 

By  Irving  Wilson  Voorhees,  M.D. 
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By  Hon.  D.  W.  Higgins. 
The  Mystic  Spring i.j/§ 

By  Edith  Nicholl  EUison. 
The  Burnt-Offering _...,..(« 


OUR    NEWEST    ISSUES 

^.     „  By  Alexandre  Erixon. 

The  Vale  of  Shadows j.^^ 

^^    «.      ®y  ^"-  Jo»«phine  M.  Clarke. 

The  King  Squirrel  of  Central  Park  QuvenUe).,    .60 

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St  Mammon j -^ 

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Tales  of  Enchantment .  q, 

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By  Ida  Blanche  Wall. 
Comedy  of  Petty  Conflicts x.as 

By  Elizabeth  Helene  Freston. 

Poems  (portrait)  beautifully  bound t«o 

Italia's  Fomarina  (leather) \[[  ^ 

Compiled  by  Darwin  W.  Esmond. 
Poetty  of  ChUdhood,  by  Paul  Warner  Esmond 
(Memorial  Edition) ,  -^ 


i 


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By  George  Fuller  Golden. 
My  Lady  Vaudeville  and  Her  White  Rats. . . .  a.M 

By  J.  A.  Salmon-Maclean. 

Leisure  Moments i-oo 

A  Stricken  City •SO 


